The Reaper's Daughter
by erpsicle
Summary: Dark secrets lurk behind the spotless façade of the Grim Reaper Staffing Association. Just why did Undertaker retire? And why is William T. Spears such an incorrigible hard-ass? Perhaps a common thread unites their pasts with the present - the knowledge that even Death Gods are powerless to rewrite Fate. Rated M for violence, gore, and NSFW content in future chapters.
1. Prologue

Author's Note:

This story (with the exception of the very first scene, obviously) begins just over one century before the current Kuroshitsuji arc, around the time my personal headcanon has Undertaker retiring from the Dispatch Association. As it explores details not in the current canon, it could be considered AU, and as such I will be using a number of OC's to help the story along. But have no fear! Most will be minor characters (with the exception of Undertaker's daughter, of course), and NONE of them will be paired in ANY significant way with canon characters. At some point I will also skip forward in the timeline to explore the training of new reapers, so expect appearances from some of our favourite Shinigami, in their younger - but hopefully no less entertaining - forms.

In the event that things start to get a bit gritty (which they will; I like my gore), I will put an appropriate trigger warning at the beginning of the chapter. I'll do my best with this, but if you are upset by something that you were NOT warned of, please don't hesitate to tell me and I will fix it. I'm deeply grateful to anyone who reads my work and I certainly don't to scare any of you off.

Alright, I think that's all! Thank you very much for reading.

Let's get started, shall we?

**Warnings for violence, gore**

* * *

It was that day of the year again. The day that Ronald Knox had awaited with equal parts trepidation and intrigue every year since graduating from the Academy nearly half a decade ago. It was the day that William T. Spears, the boss from Hell, Mr Rules himself, relaxed his iron fist and became something almost resembling human.

And Ronald still had no idea _why_.

'Sorry, darling,' Grell had said, when Ronald voiced his concern about their boss' frankly alarming lack of reaction to Eric spinning across the room in his desk-chair to fetch something from Alan. 'It's really not my place to say anything.' The red-haired reaper had ruffled Ronald's own blond mop affectionately, giving the younger reaper a somewhat subdued version of his trademark grin. 'Cheer up, Knoxie. I'm sure he'll tell you himself, in due time.'

That had been three years ago, and, despite Grell's assurances, William seemed no closer to revealing the significance of this particular day than he had ever been. Grell also remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the matter, which in itself was enough to get _anyone_ curious… and curiosity was Ronald's middle name.

Well, actually it was Arbuthnott, but no one needed to know _that_.

In any case, this year Ronald was determined to find out just what had had such a profound effect on his naturally imperturbable boss that a riot could break out in his office and he would hardly do more than give the perpetrators a vague, slightly mournful stare. It was only the fact that this indifference was a great deal more unsettling than his usual icy rage that kept his workers from starting said riot, and even Grell – who on any other day would have delighted in the ability to get away with bloody murder (literally) – kept his head down and _actually got on with his work_, with nary a glimpse of his shark-like smile. It was enough to do poor Ronald's head in. So what if he was the youngest in the office? He worked just as hard as any of them; surely that meant he had the right to know as much as they very clearly did, from the looks they gave him whenever he started asking questions. Well, he'd had enough of being kept in the dark. He'd find out what was so _bloody special_ about the twentieth of April if it _bloody killed him_.

Ronald threw a final, cursory glance over the paperwork in front of him, gathered it up, stuffed it into a folder and pushed back his chair, before crossing the room to where Alan Humphries sat, categorising that day's reaps. Alan seemed the most logical place to start; the petite, brown-haired reaper was the most honest being Ronald had ever met. He didn't think the man could tell a lie if you _paid_ him. Surely if he saw that Ronald was genuinely curious (and he was!), he'd have no qualms about telling him what he wanted to know… right?

'Hey, Alan,' he greeted the other reaper brightly, handing him the thick folder of paperwork.

Alan took the folder and flipped through it. 'Hello, Ronald,' he said, sounding a little tired, perhaps, but not unkindly. Yup, Ronald's odds were looking good. 'You've certainly had a busy day.'

'Looks like I'm not the only one,' he laughed, with a meaningful glance in Grell's direction. Unladylike snores were rising from the desk where the red-haired reaper was slumped over his own paperwork, glasses askew and a line of drool making its way from the corner of his mouth.

The brunette reaper chuckled. 'Someone better save his paperwork before the ink is ruined.' His face fell at the thought of having to rewrite Grell's papers from scratch. _Why must we be so understaffed? I'll _die_ if I get any more overtime this week…_

'Got it!' Ronald said, darting over to rescue his comatose colleague's precious paperwork. He whipped it out from beneath Grell's cheek just in time – a second longer and "_Mayer, John_" would have been reduced to an unsightly grey blot. He shook out the creases in the paper, before returning to Alan's desk.

The reaper gave a sigh of relief and took the papers from Ronald as though they were a newborn babe. 'Thanks, Ronald, I owe you one. And so does Grell, when he wakes up,' he added, adjusting his spectacles.

The small movement immediately reminded Ronald of what he'd come over here to ask. As nonchalantly as he could, he perched himself on the edge of Alan's desk and began fiddling with a pencil. 'It's weird, huh?'

Alan blinked at him. 'Hm? What is?'

Ronald gestured vaguely in Grell's direction. 'Spears usually wouldn't let Sutcliff slack off like that. Usually he'd be out here in a flash, whacking Grell with his scythe and giving us all a lecture on "efficiency", threatening us with overtime and what-not.' He gave the pencil an idle twirl, watching Alan covertly out of the corner of his eye. 'It's weird, don'tcha think?'

'Er, yes, I suppose so,' Alan muttered, not meeting Ronald's gaze, in what the blonde reaper thought was a very pointed evasion of the issue. _Aha! I was right, he _does_ know something! Now, in for the kill…_

'I mean, it's weird that something like that would affect Spears so much,' he went on casually, as if he wasn't internally hopping up and down. 'He doesn't really seem the type, you know?'

_That_ made Alan look at him. 'You know about that?' he whispered, leaning in slightly and giving the door to William's office a fearful look. 'He told you?'

'He may have mentioned something about it, yeah,' Ronald lied easily. 'But I figured most of it out on my own. I mean, it _is_ pretty obvious.'

'Is it?'

It was Ronald's turn to blink. 'Huh?'

'_Is_ it obvious?' Alan had leaned back, and he was giving Ronald a funny look. 'As far as I know, he's never expressed any sort of interest in… well, you know.' He blushed. 'And you've known him almost as long as I have. So, I just thought… obvious is a bit of an odd choice of words. In my opinion.'

Ronald opened and closed his mouth several times, but his mind had gone horribly blank in the face of Alan's now piercing stare.

'You don't know, do you,' Alan said, returning his attention to his paperwork with an audible sigh.

_Well, so much for that_. 'Oh come on, Alan!' Ronald cried, abandoning the now useless pretext. He slid off Alan's desk and placed his hands there instead, leaning in to fix the other reaper with an imploring stare. 'I thought we were mates! I'm going crazy here, you gotta give me _something_!'

'We are, no you're not and no, I don't,' Alan said, calmly carrying on with his work as though Ronald wasn't there, far too familiar with the blonde's "kicked puppy" routine to be at all fazed by it. 'Spears will tell you himself, when he wants to.'

'Did he tell _you_?'

That, to Ronald's immense satisfaction, caused the other reaper to blush furiously. 'Er, of course he-'

'No, he didn't,' Ronald interrupted his now severely flustered colleague. 'Eric told you, didn't he?'

Alan ignored him, but the sheer heat coming off his face was enough to tell Ronald exactly what he wanted to know.

'Aha!' Ronald pumped the air with his fist, before bounding away in search of Eric. 'Thanks, Alan!'

'Wait!' Alan hissed, almost pulling a muscle in his hurry to twist around in his seat. 'Ronald! Don't, you'll get us _both_ in trouble! Oh, bugger.'

The blonde's only reply was a cheery wave as he disappeared out the door, and he was halfway down the outside hallway before he realised he had no idea where Eric was. Ronald hadn't seen him leave the office, but he'd been neck deep in his own paperwork all afternoon so that wasn't really that surprising. Presumably he had clocked out early (taking advantage of William's once-yearly indifference to, well, _everything_), but where he had gone after that was anyone's guess (except, perhaps, for Alan, but there was no way he was going back there to ask him). So it was with somewhat less confidence that Ronald set off down the corridor, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, trying to maintain the carefree air of one who has every right to be where he is. In actual fact he was beginning to regret this whole mad venture. William wasn't a bad guy; a bit of a hard-ass, yeah, but did that give Ronald the right to go sneaking around behind his back?

_Yeah, but it's not like he's ever going to just _tell_ me, _said that impatient part of his brain – the one that had got him into this mess in the first place. And the rest of Ronald's brain had to agree that no, William wasn't about to go sharing the significance of the twentieth of April with his youngest, most hot-headed subordinate. And that, as far as he was concerned, settled it. _Now, if I were a crazy-haired Sasquatch named Eric, where would I be?_

He had just decided to check General Affairs (he thought he remembered Eric saying something about getting a nick in his scythe fixed), when he felt a Presence manifest itself just behind him.

At first he thought nothing of it. _Probably just some secretary_. But the Presence didn't budge, and Ronald began to wonder if he had felt it somewhere before; it certainly seemed familiar.

And that was when he froze, grimacing at his own stupidity.

Because he knew _exactly_ who was standing behind him.

'And just where do you think you are going, Mr Knox?'

_Oh, bugger me_. Ronald bit back a groan, plastered an exaggerated smile over his expression of horror, and turned to face his doom.

'Oh, er, hi Mr Spears!' he said brightly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. 'Fancy seeing you here.'

William quirked an eyebrow, adjusting his spectacles with the end of his ever-present scythe. 'I hardly think so,' he said in a clipped tone. 'This _is_ my Department, as I am sure you are aware.'

Ronald's cheeks were beginning to ache with the strain of holding his grin in place. 'Ha, yeah, of course. Silly me. I'll just be on my way, then…'

William, however, was having none of it. 'Come with me, Knox,' he said, in that same, brisk voice, and without waiting for Ronald to reply he strode past the younger reaper, evidently expecting the blonde to follow him.

When he reached the end of the corridor and found himself alone, however, he turned abruptly on his heel and fixed Ronald (who appeared to be having a brain aneurysm) with a hawk-like stare.

'Well?' he spoke sharply. 'Are you coming of your own accord, or do I have to drag you by the ear like Sutcliff? Honestly, you've been spending too much time with that _embarrassment_.'

This brief resurgence of William T. Spears, Head of Collections, was enough to snap Ronald out of his reverie, and the young reaper hurried to his superior's side before he earned himself a scythe to the face. Once he was sure the blonde wasn't going to try and make a run for it, William made another neat turn and set off again.

William set a brisk pace, and Ronald found himself almost jogging to keep up with the much longer-legged reaper. 'Sir?' he ventured, as they passed through General Affairs (no sign of Eric's tell-tale hairstyle) and out onto the Bridge. 'Where are we going, if you don't mind me asking?'

'You will see soon enough,' William answered, leading the way towards the immense, palace-like structure that housed the Cinematic Records.

_The Library_… Ronald gulped. There was a belief amongst the reapers-in-training that, if you broke The Rules, Senior Spears would take you behind the Library Archives and… _dispatch_ you. Ronald had always thought it a sort of long-running joke, but suddenly he was not so sure.

_Gods help me, he knows I was sniffing around and now he's bringing me out here to off me…_

'I see that rumour pertaining to the Library Archives is still in circulation, then?'

Ronald paled visibly. 'W-what?' _Oh gods, oh gods, oh _gods_! He knows I'm onto him, this is the end, this is how I die-_

The young reaper was too busy watching his life flash before his eyes to notice the hint of a smile that tugged at the corner of William's mouth. 'Do calm down, Knox. I am _not_ bringing you out here just to kill you. If I wanted to do that, trust me when I say that you would already be dead.'

Ronald wasn't quite sure how that was supposed to reassure him. 'So… you're not going to kill me?'

'No.' There was a soft click as William adjusted his spectacles. '_Honestly_. Leave it to Eric Slingby to start such a ridiculous rumour. Offing my employees behind the Archives, really,' he scoffed.

'And, er… you're not going to fire me, either?'

William raised an eyebrow at that. 'Have you given me a reason to do so, Mr Knox?'

'No, Sir,' Ronald said quickly, and this time, he didn't miss the hint of a smile that William gave him.

'Very well then.'

They walked in silence, passing the Library and starting up the grassy hill behind it. Ronald knew about this area of the Dispatch, and though he had never been there himself, he had a feeling that they were nearing their destination. He shot William a curious glance, but the dark-haired reaper's gaze was fixed on the crest of the hill, so intent on his purpose that he almost seemed to have forgotten the blonde was there.

'Oh, wow…'

They had reached the top of the hill. There, spread out before them, was the Reaper Cemetery.

'This way,' William murmured, moving off between the ancient stones. Ronald tried to get a look at a few as he hurried past, but any names that had once decorated the graves had long since worn away. A deep sadness settled in the pit of his stomach as he followed William through row after row of their fallen colleagues. _There are so many_…

William led the blonde off to the right, where the graves were more well-kept and the stones cleaner. _I guess these still have friends alive to take care of them. _He peered at the names, but, to his relief, found none that were familiar to him.

The dark haired reaper came to a halt in front of one of the more well-maintained plots in the field, and Ronald stepped hesitantly up beside him. An almost palpable sadness seemed to be emanating from the man, and Ronald wondered if he ought to say something. William surprised him, however, by speaking first.

'Well?' he said quietly, still gazing fixedly at the headstone. 'This is what you wanted to know, is it not?'

Ronald, who had developed a sudden overwhelming interest in the grass between his shoes, shifted uncomfortably. 'Alan told you, huh?'

'No. You did, just now.'

Ronald could have kicked himself. 'Sir, I didn't mean-'

'I know.'

Caught off guard by the softness of his superior's voice, Ronald looked up to find William gazing at him with unnatural kindness. The dark-haired reaper smiled that tiny, sad smile at the blonde's stunned expression.

'Though I would prefer you come directly to me, the next time you want to know something. Slingby gives unreliable information at best, and the last thing I need is him filling my employees' heads with more nonsense than they already contain.'

Ronald managed a small, shaky laugh. 'Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.' He turned back to the headstone. 'So, er… who was he?'

William's tentative smile evaporated. 'The brightest student the Academy has ever seen, I suspect.'

'Oh? So, you were his teacher?'

'No. We were in the same year.'

Ronald blinked. He had always thought of William as the top-of-the-class type, what with his obsession with The Rules… not to mention that Ronald had never met a being possessed of a more fierce intelligence than the dark-haired reaper. The thought of there being someone even more intelligent than the Head of Collections was as frightening as it was impressive, even if he _was_ dead.

'And _her_ name, Mr Knox, was Anais Stone.'

Wait, did he hear that right? 'Her name, Sir?' No, that couldn't be right. There _were_ no female reapers, and as far as he knew, there never had been. Well, technically there were, but they were all in secretarial positions, and they certainly wouldn't have gone through the Academy. He didn't know exactly why (he wasn't sure anyone did, to be honest); it was simply The Way Things Were.

'You heard me,' William said, a touch of his usual sharpness creeping into his voice.

Ronald decided it was best not to argue, and they stood in silence for a few moments longer.

'Did you love her?' Ronald asked at length, quietly.

William seemed surprised by the question, and for a long moment he didn't answer.

'I suppose I must have,' he said slowly. 'Insofar as someone like me could love someone like her, that is. Yes, Mr Knox. I suppose I did love her.'

And just like that, Ronald suddenly felt immensely guilty. _I shouldn't have been sneaking around, trying to find out why today was so special. I should have just _asked_. Gods, I'm such an idiot_. And yet, William was trusting him enough to bring him here and open up to him, knowing how vulnerable he was making himself by doing so – William Spears, the strongest, most stoic man he had ever had the fortune to know. Ronald couldn't have spoken a word even if he'd wanted to, so great was his shame. He hung his head, willing the ground to open and swallow him up.

'You remind me of her, actually,' William added suddenly. Ronald looked up to find his superior's lip twitching again. 'She, too, had an utter disregard for personal privacy.'

Realising that the dark-haired reaper was not trying to make him feel worse than he already did, Ronald made a valiant – but short-lived – attempt at a smile. A thought had just occurred to him; a question that had to be asked. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

'What happened to her, Sir? If you don't want to say, I totally understand,' he added quickly, when William looked at him.

'No, it's fine,' William said quietly. The reaper lifted his scythe, and adjusted his spectacles.

'She died, Mr Knox, because someone broke the rules.'

xxx

_Many, many years earlier..._

Red was the world, and quiet. Long ago, the reaper had made a habit of walking as though the souls of the dead, like delicate flowers, would be bruised if he stepped too heavily. They deserved at least that modicum of respect, after all. Gods knew they had seen little enough of it in life.

A light tread and a welcoming smile; these, perhaps even more so than his scythe, were the reaper's signature tools. But although the first came as easily as breathing (figuratively speaking of course; the reaper had little use for breathing in the literal sense), tonight the latter was giving him a bit of difficulty. For the first time in many long centuries, as his footsteps cast red ripples across the floor, the reaper reached for that old, familiar smile, and could not find it.

They were puddled on the floor, a heap of bloody rags and skin and bone. The little girl, barely five years old if the To-Die List was to be believed, was still wrapped protectively in her mother's cold white arms. He had passed the son in the front hallway, a tall young man spread-eagled at the head of a long red smear. Even with half his innards spilling out, he had crawled towards his mother and sister, though what he had hoped to accomplish in such a state the reaper could not say. _A testament to the human spirit_, he had wondered as he gathered up the man's soul, _or human stubbornness_?

Perhaps there was not as much difference between the two as people would like to believe. Either way, the young man and his mother were dead. The woman was taken care of with a dispassionate swipe of the scythe, and the Reaper turned his attention to the final name on his List.

_Anna Starling. Five years old. Stabbed seven times. To die on the 20__th__ of April 1789, at twenty-three minutes past eleven._

It was a brutal and senseless murder, but he had seen too many and wasted too much of his life wondering _why_ such things occurred. Sighing, the reaper closed the List and stowed in one of the many pockets of his overcoat, and from another produced a heavy silver pocket-watch. _Eleven_-_twenty_.

'Three minutes to go, little bird,' he murmured, surprised by the sadness in his voice. The pocket-watch disappeared back into its pocket, and the reaper settled down on the floor to get a better look at the girl whose soul would soon be in his care.

She was strong for one so small. Seven times the murderer had driven his blade into her tiny body, and yet her chest still rose and fell with the desperate fluttering of her heart. Blood welled between her lips where they were pressed against her mother's dead flesh. A slash to the face had closed her right eye, but her left was open – and it was staring, quite unmistakably, at her reaper.

That in itself was not so very unusual; the dying are often more sensitive to that which the living cannot ordinarily see, and children especially so. Many times his charges' eyes had found his in their last earthly moments, cursing him, or begging; sometimes for mercy, but oftentimes simply for an end to the pain. But never in all his long years had the reaper encountered one who stared at him with such accusation, as if _he_ were somehow to blame for all she had suffered.

The reaper sat back, blinking behind his spectacles, and took out his pocket-watch again. _One minute, thirty seconds left._ It was not unheard of, for a reaper to spare a human; but that human would have to be remarkable indeed to warrant such a deviation from reaper law… remarkable enough to change the world. He had spared one such, in times long gone by, but she had been nothing less than exceptional. To break reaper law for the sake of one unremarkable little girl, in a moment of what could only be seen as pitiable sentimentality (most unbefitting a reaper of his calibre), why, it was unthinkable!

_Unthinkable, eh? More unthinkable than letting her die?_ The reaper tapped his front teeth with a fingernail. _Who's to say one soul is more remarkable than another? Perhaps in not as large a way as others, but surely… who's to say this little bird will or won't change _someone's_ world, someday?_

_I am. _The thought came to him suddenly, madly, like a gasp of fresh air to a drowning man. He glanced at his pocket-watch. _One minute_…

The girl was no longer staring. Her bright blue eye had drooped closed, the rise and fall of her chest no longer fluttered like a desperate bird but came slow and staggered. The red pool around her knees had widened. If he was going to save her, it would have to be soon. _And why shouldn't I? Who's to say who lives or dies, but for me? In the end, I am all there is. _

_Fifteen_ _seconds_. As the reaper's fingers tightened around his scythe, little Anna gave a gasp. Her eye opened once more and a tiny red hand flung out suddenly, desperately, reaching for him. Her fingers brushed against a lock of his long, silver hair, and found it soft, almost like a cat's. Whether she wanted him to spare her or end her, the reaper did not know, but after a moment of hesitation he removed a glove and took her hand gently in his.

Her small fingers were cold and trembling against his palm. _Five_ _seconds_. Their eyes met, blue into yellow-green.

_Four_. Very quietly, the reaper whispered, 'Do you want to go home, little bird?'

_Three. _

_Two_.

And very quietly, the girl answered, 'Yes.'

xxx

George Ellerby was at his desk, looking over the day's register with a slightly pinched expression, by the light of a single guttering candle. Now and then he would take up a pen and scrawl a word or two beside an entry on the page, which was so long that it tumbled over the edge of the desk and across the floor like a paper waterfall. The London Register contained the names of all the souls that had been collected that day, and Ellerby's job as assistant librarian was to ensure that each Cinematic Record had been accessed, reviewed, and, once severed, removed from the 'In Progress' section of the Library, and stored in the 'Archives.' While not overly difficult, it was a dismal and boring job, but really nothing more than a green reaper like young Ellerby could expect.

At least it was better than the _ablutions_ job. Ellerby supressed a shudder and adjusted his glasses, before making a final note on the Register and leaning back in his chair with a deeply satisfied sigh. _Finally_. Now, with any luck, he could head back to his apartments and snatch a few hours of sleep before tomorrow's shift. The thought of being out in the field, reaping souls instead of cataloguing them, made him more than a little uneasy, but he knew it was for a very good reason. The role of assistant librarian never fell to the same newbie twice in a row, on account of the Records. They did funny things to the mind, if you were around them for too long.

George Ellerby allowed himself a luxuriant stretch – he had been sitting far too long – before rolling up the Register and heading for the door. If his attention hadn't already been firmly fixed on thoughts of his bed, he might have seen the stack of Records lurking just behind his desk. As it was, he found himself sprawled on the floor of the Library with his dignity bruised and both the Register and his spectacles absent without leave. He wasted several minutes crawling blindly about on the floor, letting out an occasional curse when his adventures led him to a close encounter with the corner of a desk or bookshelf, before one groping hand alighted miraculously upon the wayward spectacles. Almost ready to weep with relief he pushed the spectacles onto his nose, and quickly located the Register, which he had somehow managed to sit on. He uncrumpled it as best he could, hoping his superior wouldn't notice that it was a little bent, and finally turned his attention to the source of this whole annoyance – the Records.

_Damn_. The Librarian must have left them there when Ellerby was double-checking the Register. He wasn't surprised that he hadn't seen the other reaper; no one ever saw the Librarian. In fact there was some doubt – even amongst the senior reapers – that he even _existed_. Ellerby himself had his suspicions. On his first night alone in the Library he could have sworn he saw one of the books move, but it had been very late by then and he had later decided that he had imagined it.

Subsequent evenings had somewhat dampened this conviction. By the third or fourth time he'd drawn Library duty, Ellerby was forced to admit that yes, the books did indeed move about entirely of their own accord. He decided then that the shadowy Librarian must be more of a book-shepherd than a book-keeper (if he existed at all); for while the books moved, it was not always to where they were supposed to be.

So with a resigned sigh Ellerby thrust the Register through a belt loop, determined not to let it escape him a second time, gathered up the wandering Records, and set about returning them to their proper places.

Half-twelve found him deep in the maze of shelves, holding the last book and muttering, 'Starling, Starling,' while he frowned at the faded names before him. The books themselves were not entirely silent; small scratchings could be heard from within each Record, as the soul's stories quietly wrote themselves. The result was a steady rustling that echoed throughout the great Library, like dry leaves in a breeze, or a thousand voices in an empty house. The other young reapers found the noise unsettling, but Ellerby thought it comforting, in an odd sort of way.

At last he gave a little 'Aha!' of triumph, coming across a promising gap in the spines, and was just about to slot the Record into place when something _peculiar_ happened. Well, more peculiar than usual. The Record marked '_Starling, Anna'_ began to tremble in his hand, so suddenly and violently that he almost dropped it. He seized the struggling book with both hands in an attempt to _force_ it into its place on the shelf, grunting with the effort of holding it shut, and to his horror it began to glow an angry, fiery green.

Ellerby stared in mute terror, hardly aware that the Record was now becoming uncomfortably warm. Only when his hands began to burn in earnest did he finally release the book, letting out a pained yelp as the tome tumbled flaming from his grasp, landing open on the Library floor, at the very last entry. Cradling his scorched hands Ellerby dropped to his knees and leaned forward to read, only to realise that as fast as his eyes skimmed over them, _the words on the page were disappearing_.

'No…' the word croaked out of him; he felt as though he were being choked. Desperately he began to turn the pages of the book, mindless of the pain in his hands, but it was no use. The words were vanishing! 'No, no, no, NO, _NO_!'

He gave a scream of frustration, tearing his scythe from his belt and raising it, trembling, only to realise that he had no idea what to do. He had never heard of anything like this occurring; he hadn't even thought it _possible_! He had never felt so helpless, or so useless as he did in that moment, watching as Anna Starling's story was erased. As the last word winked out of existence he let the scythe, a curved pruning-saw, fall haplessly to his side. The glow faded, and the Library was dark and quiet once more. Even the rustling of the Records seemed subdued, as though they were aware of – and perhaps mourned – their sister's incomprehensible demise.

Ellerby reached out a tentative hand, and, finding the book quite cool, paged silently through. Blank. Blank. Blank, blank, blank, blank. Every page, blank. Tears of sadness and shame stung his eyes and, with no one but the books to see, rolled freely down his cheeks. _This wasn't supposed to happen_.

He gathered up the empty book, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do now, only to drop it again with a startled shout as green flames burst from the cover, this time burning so intensely that the heart of the book glowed white and Ellerby had to cover his eyes to avoid being blinded. The book fell open, to the first page now, and he peered out from between his arms with eyes narrowed against the vicious heat.

Words appeared. Slowly, Anna Starling's story was being rewritten in fiery green scrawl. Ellerby leaned as close to the burning book as he could bear, trying to make out the words…

And when he did, George Ellerby's eyes rolled back in his head, and he clutched at his hair, and he _screamed_.

xxx

At thirty-nine minutes past eleven, the reaper emerged from the Starling residence with Anna fast asleep and cradled in his arms. He was gazing at his pocket watch, apparently oblivious to the four suited figures waiting in the street below. After a moment he seemed to come to some sort of decision, and he closed the watch with a snap and dropped it into his pocket. The scythe, too, had been folded neatly and stowed away in the depths of his long overcoat, along with the To-Die List. With any amount of luck, he would never have to look at either again.

'Reaper Dullahan!'

The reaper ignored the shout. He was busy rearranging Anna's position, so that he could carry her in one arm.

'An unauthorised Cinematic Record alteration has been detected at this address,' the man went on. 'This is a blatant violation of the Grim Reaper Code of Law, clause XVIII, line twenty two 'B' of paragraph four. We are here to take you into custody.'

The reaper grinned. He had known that they would be on him, like flies on a corpse – but he hadn't expected them to go about it so _stupidly_. Their first mistake had been in sending only four reapers – he inhaled deeply – one of them very clearly as green as spring grass, by the smell of fear in the air. In fact, all of them were afraid (as well they should be), but the one who had squawked the Code at him like a well-trained parrot had his head stuck too far up his own arse to realise it.

Their second was quoting the Code. He'd _written_ it.

Their third and most unfortunate mistake was allowing him to shift the girl's weight to his left arm, because that left his right free to do _this_-

The fight – if it could be called that – was brief. The reaper moved impossibly fast, a silver-haired blur, and with three sharp consecutive _thwack_s the three younger men were out cold. The Parrot, though, clearly had more sense than first appearances might have suggested, and as soon as he had heard his men go down he had brought his scythe up-

-Only to have the silver-haired reaper appear out of _bloody nowhere_ and seize his wrist, giving it a vicious twist. The sharp _crack_ broke the quiet of the night like a gunshot, and the man's whisper turned into a wretched gurgle as the older reaper released his fractured wrist and took hold hold of his throat instead.

'Move that scythe again and I'll wring your head clean off your scrawny neck, reaper,' he whispered sweetly, tightening his grip. The man's eyes bulged behind his square-framed spectacles, and he emitted a high-pitched whine. Satisfied that he had his captive's pig-headed manner well and truly cowed, the Reaper kicked one of the man's knees out from under him, feeling something _crunch_. Once the Parrot had fallen heavily into the street he stepped neatly over him, ignoring the man's groans.

_Pathetic. _He had almost hoped for one last good fight, to finish off his career with style. _We were made of sterner stuff once, we reapers_. He'd not even had to use his _scythe_, for gods' sake. It was all most disappointing.

His free hand reached up to remove his spectacles. He had considered keeping them, but a clean cut was always preferable to a messy one, and the glasses were tied to a thousand memories he would sooner forget.

The spectacles fell into the street with a tinkle of breaking glass. In his arms, Anna (who had remained miraculously asleep for the duration of the scuffle) made a small, frightened noise. He smoothed her soft black hair back from her face, revealing a worried eye that now gleamed yellow-green.

'Come, little bird,' he whispered. 'Let's take you home. I promised I would, didn't I?'

The girl nuzzled drowsily at the reaper's scarred neck, and he smiled.

He was still smiling when he stepped down into the street, and when he felt the broken spectacles _crunch_ beneath his boot, he made sure to tread lightly, as if they were a delicate flower.

They deserved that modicum of respect, after all.

* * *

Wooo! First chapter of my first proper fic ever, done and dusted! And boy, was it _long_! Don't worry, the rest will hopefully be a lot shorter (writing a 6000 word chapter every day would probably kill me). I'm really excited about this, so please review!

Fun Fact #1: This fic was inspired by the story of The Enchanter's Daughter, by Antonia Barber. Little Anna Starling is based on it's title character, Thi Phi Yen, which means 'pretty flying bird' (hence 'Starling').

Fun Fact #2: Undertaker is referred to here as 'Dullahan', which is a Celtic grim reaper figure distinguished by its creepy smile, which is so wide it reaches its ears. The dullahan carries a whip made from a human spine, and drives a carriage pulled by black horses. I suspect that it was one of the several grim-reaper figures in European folklore that Undertaker was based on.

(I might make a habit of putting these little fun facts at the end of each chapter. Let me know what you think!)


	2. A Sickness, a Story, and a Lost Soul

'Careful with that, little bird,' the reaper chuckled, watching as the girl delved into one of the many unlabelled boxes strewn about the room. 'All these lovely things belonged to whoever lived here first, so we m-mu… ah-CHOO! Ugh – we must make sure to treat them with the proper respect.' He rubbed at his nose with the back of a long sleeve – not that it did him much good. Everything in the place was coated in a thick layer of dust, and so, by this time, were the reaper and his little helper, and he sneezed again.

By then his little bird had emerged from the box, holding a large glass jar. She rubbed a window in the dust – even the boxed items had not escaped the horrible stuff – and squealed, flinging the jar away like it had bitten her. Luckily the glass did not break, and the jar rolled towards the reaper's feet, raising a fresh cloud of dust as it did so. The reaper wrinkled his nose and scooped it up, peering – he was already regretting the loss of his spectacles, as he was almost blind without them – at whatever was inside. 'Why, little bird,' he giggled. 'It's nothing but a few old ears. Nothing to be frightened of. Look, aren't they delightful? Look how they swim, like little fishes.'

He crouched to let the girl have a better look at the grisly object, and she came to him timidly, but curious. After confirming that is was indeed just a silly old jar of ears, she giggled and the reaper smiled, tugging playfully at her own small ear. She squeaked and twisted away in search of more treasures.

The reaper – no, the _undertaker_, he corrected with a slight grimace. Gods, it would take him a while to get used to that. Perhaps if he got himself a hat… yes, one could never underestimate the value of a good hat when one had a particular role to play. The undertaker settled down on the lid of a coffin and set to polishing the ear-jar with his voluminous sleeve.

This took more concentration than one might expect, as he was quickly running out of patches of sleeve clean enough to do more than simply move the dust around (there were already several rows of newly-polished jars, of varying sizes and contents, at his feet), and it was a while before he noticed that the parlour had fallen silent. A prickling feeling of unease swept over the undertaker, and he looked up just in time to see his little bird crumple…

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, the jar falling and this time shattering, sending broken glass, preserving fluid and ears in all directions – but the undertaker was running, a wordless cry escaping his lips as he caught up his little bird and saw the ashen pallor of her skin, her mouth slack, her eyes closed, her heart a faint tremor as he pressed his ear against her chest. He withdrew, eyes wide with dismay. No, this wasn't happening, it shouldn't, it _couldn't_! He'd saved her, he'd done everything right, he had _beaten_ Death and oh gods why, why, why was this _happening_? He shook her, suddenly as helpless and frightened as a child himself, but her eyes remained closed.

For days she slept like one of the dead, weight sloughing off her already thin frame. The fresh scar over her right eye stood out red and livid against her ash-grey skin, a bloody crescent moon mocking the reaper with its grin. He watched in despair as his little bird's beautiful black hair became brittle and turned as silver as his own. _Look_, it seemed to say. _This is what you have done_. Dread and guilt both wrapped their icy claws around the reaper's heart, and began to squeeze. This was his fault. This was the punishment a servant earned, when he tried to play the master. He had presumed too much, taken too much, gone too far, and now he was paying the price. Oh, the damned irony of it, that just when he thought he had it figured out, just when he thought he had finally done something good, something that _meant_ _something_, the gods would laugh in his face and rip all of it away, leaving only the one, bitter truth that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be anything more than a pitiable servant, unable to change the fate of even one little girl…

The unfairness of it, the blatant _fucking_ _cruelty_, seethed in his gut like a writhing, burning snake.

No. He wouldn't allow it, not after he had given so much, lost so much. Centuries of giving and losing and giving again, and taking, taking, _taking_, and he was sick of it.

He was The Reaper, and by gods he would be damned to the seven Hells and back before he let this girl die.

And so he left in a whirl of charcoal and silver and burning green, and returned with a book. He pressed a bookmark to a page, and took up a pen, and sat for close to three hours, writing. Then, when he had closed the book and hidden it away, he prayed. He prayed to old gods, new gods, gods without names, gods with names beyond count, gods he had met and others he wasn't even sure existed. And he prayed to his little bird, aloud and in his soul, never once leaving her side as she slept, neither eating nor drinking, nor closing his eyes for more than a moment.

In the end he didn't know what had done it, and he didn't much care. The only thing that mattered was that she finally woke.

When she opened her eyes the relief the reaper felt was such that he could have died right then and there, but it was short lived. When she did not respond to his voice, a deep and dreadful chill settled over the reaper's heart. Her eyes were indeed open, but they were empty, as if something was missing inside. The reaper let his head fall into his hands. His fault.

Something had gone wrong in the transition; that was the only explanation he could find. It was never an enjoyable process, when a human soul stepped into the Other Realm as a reaper, but however difficult it was always natural.

His little bird's had been anything but that, and she was so _young_... not for the first time, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake in bringing her back.

He had known it was possible to force a transition – in fact it was a relatively straight-forward process if you got down to the bare bones of it – but it was in what came afterwards that things got a little complicated. Somewhere along the line, Anna Starling's soul had decided – altered Record or no – that it no longer belonged in this world. And so it had tried to pass on, only to find that its Record, now that of an immortal reaper, prevented it from doing so. Now she was stuck, somewhere between Here and There, and it was _all his fault_…

But he would fix it. He had to.

Slowly, the reaper raised his head. His hand trembled as he reached out to smooth his little bird's hair back from her face – only one streak of her beautiful, raven-black remained amidst the silver – grimacing at the coldness of her skin.

'Hey there, little bird,' he murmured, turning her face gently towards his. Her eyes, however, remained fixed on something he could not see. Whatever it was, he knew that it would draw her away if he let it. Well then. He'd just have to draw her back, wouldn't he?

'Let me tell you a story,' he began, 'about a man who lived among the trees…'

Hours passed and became days, and the reaper told his little bird story after story, until his voice became a tortured rasp and every breath burned his throat like acid, and when at last her eyes found him and her tiny, trembling voice whispered, 'Papa,' words failed him completely. He gathered her into his arms, and they clung to one another and wept, two lonely, scarred creatures, each broken and made whole by the other.

Her raven hair never did return, but it was a small price to pay for all that had. And in any case, the silver was proof that she was his and he, in turn, was hers. Beyond that, nothing else mattered in the slightest.

xxx

'Tell me a story, Papa,' his little bird whispered, as she clambered into her coffin. Though they had finished their cleaning _months_ ago, the undertaker saw no point in purchasing beds when there were so many suitable sleeping-places already available – and besides, where was the fun in a plain old _mattress_? Smiling, the undertaker covered her with a soft grey blanket, head to toe like a funeral shroud, and she giggled as she threw it back off her face.

'Aren't you getting a little _old_ for stories, hmm?' he asked, with a mock sigh. 'You've almost grown out of that little coffin, soon you'll be overflowing!' His little bird let out a squeal, wiggling like a worm beneath the covers as he poked a teasing finger into her ticklish side.

His little bird had quickly returned to her bright and curious self, once she had awakened. While she did not seem to recall her illness, she remembered the stories, and had soon developed what could only be described as a _hunger_ for the reaper's tales. Whether they were stories he made up at her bedside (or rather, coffin-side) or ones from his own long life – cleverly disguised – it did not matter; her appetite for them was voracious.

'Please, Papa,' she managed through her giggles. 'Tell me a story. A _true_ one.'

'I beg your pardon? All my stories are true, thank-you-very-much!' Unfazed by his pretended outrage, she drew the blanket up to her chin, waiting. 'Oh, very well,' he grumbled. 'One about Robin Hood, then? You always liked those. I could tell you-'

'No,' she said suddenly. 'Not Robin Hood. Something _different_.'

'Like what, little bird?'

She snuggled deeper into the blankets, her mouth opening in a small pink 'o' as she yawned, before answering. 'Tell me about my mother.'

The undertaker blinked slowly behind his curtain of silver hair. _Well_. _This_ was certainly new. 'That's a sad story, my little bird,' he said quietly, tucking the edges of the blanket into the coffin. 'A very sad story indeed. Are you sure you want to hear it?'

His little bird nodded, and he gently brushed a lock of silver hair away from the scarred side of her face. She had taken to hiding behind her hair more often in recent weeks; perhaps the pitying stares of his more lively patrons had been bothering her. The thought pained him. 'Very well,' he said at last, settling down beside his daughter's coffin.

'Once there was a garden. A brightly blooming garden, filled with all kinds of lovely flowers. Some were large, with petals of the most wonderful colours you can imagine (and a great deal more besides). Others were small, their petals plain. But, if you looked closely enough, they were no less beautiful than their sisters.

'But of all these many, many flowers, one was the most beautiful of all. A small white rose, blooming peacefully at the very edge of the garden.

'Early one morning, a reaper passed through the garden. Grey and alone, he felt out of place amongst the bright flowers, each happily blooming amongst her sisters, and weary from his night-time work he barely saw their beauty.

'But when he came to the little white rose he stopped and stared, for in all his long, long life he had never seen anything more beautiful. She may not have had the largest or most colourful petals, but she bloomed all the same, and even though she stood apart from the other flowers she seemed the happiest of all.

'However, as the sun rose higher she began to wilt, having no sisters about her to protect her from its rays. When the reaper saw this his heart broke, for he could not bear to see her die, and so he changed her into a little girl, with snow-white skin and silver hair. Now, even if the rose plant withered, her flower could live forever as his precious daughter.

'So, my little bird. That is the story of your mother, the rose plant, and you, her lovely white flower. I did tell you it would be an unhappy tale.'

His little bird did not reply, and the undertaker chuckled softly to himself. She had the right idea; falling asleep while the tale was still sweet enough to give her pleasant dreams. A bright young bird indeed. Tomorrow she would berate him for telling her some silly story about flowers when she asked about her mother, and he would laugh and give her a playful cuff on the ear, because it wasn't his fault that she had nodded off before he got to that part. Indignant, she would punch him with a tiny fist, and counter that it was his fault for being so _boring_.

The undertaker smiled as he removed his hat and climbed into his own coffin. Would that _he_ could fall asleep, while the tale was still sweet, and spare them both whatever bitter ending the gods had in store. Then, perhaps, his dreams might be pleasant for once.

xxx

From the journal of George Ellerby, Junior Reaper, London Dispatch.

Dated 3 May 1789

It's dark, and it's quiet, and I am alone.

When I asked why I must be kept here, they said it was to aid in evoking certain memories of what they are now calling "The Incident", but in truth I think they are afraid to look at me. Perhaps it is the burns.

Perhaps they feel that they are speaking to one already counted among the dead, and perhaps they are right. In the darkest hours, I can almost hear their voices…

In any case, I must get out of here soon. The scratching of the Records is driving me mad! It seems so long ago now – though I suppose only a few weeks have passed since "The Incident" – that I found the sound a comforting one. Now their whispers seem as frightened as those of the other reapers, and at such a pitch that they burrow into my brain and make me want to weep.

I wonder how much of what I write will be legible. My eyes and hands are still bandaged, though the doctors have hope that they will be able to remove these awful wrapping soon. It is a hollow hope; I know as well as they that I will not see again.

Still, Senior Marsden has instructed that I keep this journal, of sorts, to record any thoughts that come to me in my time here. I think he hopes that I will remember something of importance about "The Incident" – which has quickly developed into one of the most baffling missing-soul cases in recent history, I'm told – though what, neither he nor I could say, and how I am expected to remember anything with this infernal scratching and rustling going on, I don't know!

The last thing I can clearly recall is having Anna Starling's record leap from my hands and fall open at my feet, ablaze with the most terrifying green fire. I suppose I must have tried to beat out the flames with my hands – luckily I was wearing my gloves, or this foolish act might have cost me my fingers as well as my eyes. At that point, details become blurred.

I remember a feeling of overwhelming sorrow. I remember a pain so intense I thought that death had surely come for me. I had thought that this was the pain in my hands and eyes, but now, I realise that it was a pain that cut through my very soul – the pain of losing something incredibly precious to me. I remember words, etched in fire at the back of my brain… yes, I remember now, the fire wasn't in the book, it was inside me [INDECIPHERABLE]… I remember a scream and oh, my soul, my soul on fire, ripping, tearing, and the screaming, screaming, screaming [INDECIPHERABLE]… and in the midst of all of that, a voice [INDECIPHERABLE]… "Grimnir" [INDECIPHERABLE] "…among the gods of death" [INDECIPHERABLE]…thunder and blood and oh god the screaming [INDECIPHERABLE]… inside me, Anna, Anna, Anna Anna Anna! [INDECIPHERABLE]…

[Several pages of indecipherable scrawl]

[Page missing]

…that the book is missing now. Here, I may be of more help. I was in my usual place when I heard someone enter the Library. Thinking it to be one of the doctors or perhaps Marsden, I called out, but received no answer. I heard the person's footsteps pass by and continue on amongst the shelves, and I thought nothing more of it until I heard him – for his voice revealed him to be a man – speak, saying something along the lines of "Oh come now, don't be stubborn. Don't you recognise your master when you see him?"

This gave me pause, for I knew after "The Incident" that Anna Starling's Record had somehow returned itself to its place on the shelf, and even the most Senior reapers had been able to remove it since then – an odd occurrence in and of itself. But more than that, I felt sure that I had heard the man's voice somewhere before, and, strangely, heard myself cry out "Grimnir!"

The man fell silent, and after a long moment I heard his footsteps approach me. "Where did you hear that name?" he asked. The question was asked in a pleasant enough manner, but I suddenly felt an inexplicable chill settle over me, and I was unable to answer. I sensed the man lean close – I could almost feel his eyes upon me. "Ah, I see," he said. "It is you." With that I felt the point of something cold and incredibly sharp touch the centre of my forehead, and, fearing for my life, I at last broke my silence and let out a cry. Whether for this or some other reason unknown to me, the point was removed and I heard the man's footsteps retreat – as calmly as you please – leaving me alone once more.

I shall write quickly now, for I fear that I have little time. I had thought the man meant to kill me then and there, but I see now that his intent in pricking me with that blade was otherwise. Even now I feel a terrible pain in my heart, my blood grow sluggish in my veins and I can no longer-

[Writing stops there]

Transcribed by Abigail Winters, Junior Under-Secretary, London Dispatch, for the investigation of Case 433-904 ("The Incident"), by the order of Senior Theodore Marsden, Chief of Dispatch, London Division.

* * *

Ooooh, angst and fluff and a little bit of mystery... what on earth happened to poor George Ellerby? Stay tuned... and please review!


	3. All Hell Breaks Loose

Theodore Marsden pushed the paper away in disgust, and set to kneading his throbbing temples. Despite having read the transcription for what felt like the hundred-thousandth time (which, in truth, probably wasn't far off the mark), he felt no closer to a solution to this wretched business than he had three and half months ago. It didn't help that the stress of holding the Dispatch Office together - all but singlehandedly – had left him with a permanent migraine. One doctor had made the mistake of suggesting that the headaches were the result of him clenching his jaw; jaws were not the only things being clenched when the Chief of Dispatch turned his withering gaze on the unfortunate man, and the rest of the Infirmary staff quickly learned to give Marsden his painkillers and keep their "suggestions" to themselves.

After nearly a minute of ineffectual massaging, Marsden accepted defeat. Instead he removed his spectacles, and tried to make sense of the bizarre sequence of events that had come, collectively, to be known as "The Incident", while he polished them with his handkerchief.

First had come the aberrant – and downright unsettling – behaviour of Anna Starling's Cinematic Record, and young Ellerby's terrible affliction. The two were almost certainly somehow connected; unfortunately, that was where his conviction ended.

Next, the sudden and complete disappearance of Reaper Dullahan. The legendary reaper who had founded the Library, along with the Staffing Association itself, and who had even had a hand in writing the Reaper Code, had vanished – simply _vanished_! – into thin air. This, perhaps, was even more unsettling than the events involving the Starling girl's Record. Couple that with the fact the reapers he had sent to the scene – four of his best and brightest – had returned beaten senseless and terrified half out of their wits, and you had yourself a most disturbing kettle of snakes.

Then, just when Marsden had thought the situation could not possibly get any worse, the gods had laughed at his naivety and proceeded to empty the proverbial chamber pot directly over his head. The Starling girl's Record vanished, along with George Ellerby (_if he is ever found alive, that boy is owed a serious pay-rise_), right from under his very nose – and that was what made this the most disturbing event of all. If he could not even protect the souls under his own roof, what business did he have calling himself Chief of Dispatch?

It was at this point that the London Dispatch Office had fallen into what Marsden could only describe as a state of "complete and utter bloody chaos", with souls and Records piling up, all but ignored, as every available hand fell to searching for anything that might lead to any kind of progress in the case, which Marsden was now convinced had risen from the depths of Hell itself simply to torment him. With Reaper Dullahan gone, there was no one to oversee the compilation of the To-Die List (while he had had a small army of Scholars monitoring the Records, none but the ancient reaper himself knew exactly how the Lists were made, and despite his legendary reputation he had apparently lacked the foresight to leave instructions on the matter), and all over the country, souls were left in the proverbial gutter – easy pickings for soul-stealing vermin like demons.

This was lovely for the demons, but rather less so for everyone else. The phrase "overtime" quickly became less an occasional annoyance and more a way-of-life for the exhausted – and frankly, terrified – reapers.

But somehow, Marsden had pulled the Office back together. Realising that it wouldn't much matter that they had solved the case if London, and the rest of Britain with it, crumbled under the weight of all the uncollected souls, he had slashed the amount of personnel working on "The Incident" and set to work on the daunting task of recovering nearly two months' worth of souls, somehow managing to find the time to throw together a temporary solution to the To-Die List problem as well. It took longer than he would have liked, but eventually he had the Office running with some semblance of efficiency, and for a while he was able to put the thrice-cursed "Incident" out of his mind.

Now George Ellerby's journal had been found – or at least, what remained of it. The book was charred, broken-spined and, horrifyingly, blood-stained in some places. Marsden had flicked through it, feeling gall rise in his throat, until finally he had handed it back to the round-eyed secretary with the order that she have someone transcribe it, unable to look at the grisly object a moment longer. Ellerby had been a somewhat timid but promising youth, with the makings of what could have been a damned good reaper, and Marsden could not help but feel that he was responsible for the boy's disappearance and – more likely than not, judging by what he had just seen – probable death. It was Marsden that had given him the journal, Marsden that had confined him to the Library in the hopes of awakening some memory of the Incident, and Marsden that had, by doing so, signed his death warrant.

It only made matters worse that Marsden could make neither head nor tail of what the boy had written. Large portions, where Ellerby had apparently written in an urgent frenzy, were simply impossible to decipher. Others, while readable, were so cryptic that even his most learned scholars were at a loss as to what he could mean, and though they had done everything short of actually tearing the Library apart, the missing page, which they suspected might hold the key to the rest of the text, remained just that – missing.

For Marsden, it was the final drop in the bucket of piss. Never in his life had he felt so much a failure – not even when the Office had nearly foundered beneath his feet – than he did now. Ellerby had spent the last, fevered moments of his life, right up to his final breath, to help Marsden understand what had occurred that night – and Marsden could not even do that.

'Sir?'

Marsden looked up to find his secretary peering round the door of his office, her coat over one arm. He blinked at her.

'Er, are you alright, Sir?' she ventured.

'Yes, Miss Pond, I am fine.'

'Only you've been staring at your spectacles for the last half an hour, Sir.' He looked down at the spectacles in his hand, which rightly sparkled. Frankly it was a wonder there was any glass left in them after being polished so thoroughly. Marsden quickly tucked his handkerchief away and replaced his spectacles, before he could look like any more of a dolt.

'Are you sure you're alright? I was just about to leave, but if you need anything…'

'I am fine,' he repeated, perhaps a little sharply, but Katherine Pond had been Marsden's secretary – and general dogsbody, when necessary – for long enough now not to be offended. Still, Marsden immediately felt guilty for snapping at her, and he sighed. 'Actually, Miss Pond, there _is_ something I would like to ask you, before you retire.'

Miss Pond entered the room with the sort of tentativeness usually reserved for inspectors of landmines. 'Sir?'

Marsden tapped the paper in front of him. 'What do you make of this word?'

The woman adjusted her own spectacles and leaned forward. '"Grimnir,"' she read, frowning slightly. 'Sorry, Sir, I can't say as I've ever heard it.' She shuddered.

'What is it?'

Miss Pond looked bashful. 'Oh, it's nothing, Sir. I just… I mislike something about the sound of it; almost like it's something a demon would be called.'

Marsden stared at his secretary as though she had just sprouted wings for ears and started speaking Greek, and the woman felt her face redden under his gaze.

'Sir?' she squeaked. 'Did I say something-?'

Her words were cut off with a yelp of surprise as Marsden leaped out of his seat, threw his arms around her and planted a kiss square on each of her now flaming cheeks. 'Miss Pond you are a diamond!' he cried. 'A queen among secretaries, a wonder, a _goddess_! Take a day – no, a week! – of paid leave, in fact I'll pay you twice your usual salary! What I would do without you I will never know!' With that he shepherded her towards the door. 'Now, bring Perkins here at once, we have much to discuss. I trust his knee has recovered sufficiently?'

'Y-yes, Sir, but-' Her protestations were severed as Marsden closed the door very firmly behind her. Despite them now being cleaner than they had been since he had first received them, he removed his spectacles and set to polishing them again, almost feverishly, as he made his way back to his desk. _Demons_, he thought giddily, perching himself on the edge of his desk. _Why didn't I think of it before? Of _course_ demons were behind this hellish mess; who but for those soul-sucking leeches had gained the most from having the reapers run about like headless chickens, searching for their beloved founder? No one._

And that, in Marsden's view, settled it. Reapers and demons had always been enemies, but even so, there had always been an uneasy sort of respect between them. The demons stayed away from the Office in general and the Library in particular, and in return the reapers stayed away from souls under Faustian contract. But now, oh _now_ the demons had broken that sacred trust and stolen from his Library, and he would be _damned_ if he would let them get away with it. He began to laugh. The demons wanted to play, did they? Well, he would give them the game of their lives.

And by gods he would make sure it was their _last_.

xxx

Interdepartmental Memo

September 1st, 1789

"In the wake of new evidence pertaining to demon involvement in Case 433-904 ('The Incident'), all active personnel are advised to take extreme caution when working in the Mortal Realm. Until further notice, it shall be obligatory to perform soul-collection duties in groups of three for Reapers in their first year of active service, and in pairs for all others.

"All regulations falling under the 'Right of Faustian Contract' act of the inter-planar Treaty have been temporarily suspended. Detection of a demon in the Mortal Realm shall henceforth be treated as a violation of the Treaty, and said demon is to be killed on sight. However it should be noted that reapers are only to engage the demon if the above specifications are fulfilled (if more than one demon is detected, there must be at least two active reapers per demon in order to engage; personnel safety is paramount).

"Additionally, any information concerning the individual known as 'Grimnir' should be directed immediately to either Chief of Dispatch Theodore Marsden, or, in his absence, Deputy Chief Lance Perkins.

"_Noster est ut Serviam_."

-Distributed by the order of Senior Theodore Marsden, Chief of Dispatch, London Branch, Reaper-In-Charge of Case 433-904 ('The Incident').

xxx

It was always dark in the little funeral parlour, both literally and figuratively. Its two eternal occupants, the Undertaker and his pint-sized Doppelganger, moved about like shadows in the gloom – shadows with wide, all but identical Cheshire grins, and eyes that sometimes offered an alarming flash of yellow-green, like a cat's, from behind their long silver hair. For his more animated patrons, a visit to Undertaker's parlour was enough to put the fear of God into even the most stoic of atheists. It simply wasn't _natural_, the way he and his little apprentice of indeterminate sex giggled and fawned over their grisly "guests", and those who did business with them tended to leave _very quickly_ when they were done, for fear that they would end up on a slab – or swimming in formaldehyde – if they lingered too long.

This, in all honesty, was not an entirely illogical assumption.

Undertaker giggled as he uncovered his latest "guest", while his little bird bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, craning to get a better look. She had grown phenomenally in the past year, but was still not quite tall enough to see over the top of her father's workbench – at least not without a little help. When he had covered the young woman's more intimate areas, he set down a small wooden box, and his little bird leaped up onto it eagerly.

'Now then, my little bird,' he said unctuously, stepping back to give her an uninterrupted view of the corpse. 'How do you suppose our lovely guest here died, hmm~?' He prodded his daughter's cheek with a long nail. 'I'll give you a clue: it's a trick ques~tion!'

'Well,' she began, her eyes travelling the length of the young woman's body. Her small fingers brushed over the woman's cold skin, prodding here and there as she had seen her father do countless times before, testing the rigidity of the flesh and searching for bruises. _She was very pretty,_ _before_, she thought sadly. Her hair was a lovely chestnut-brown, and she had a kind face even in death. Little Bird thought of her own hair, silver like her Father's, and her face with its crescent-shaped scar she hated so much, and couldn't help but feel a little jealous. Father had scars, too; he said they were from fighting fierce demons. He told her scars meant that you were brave, but as she couldn't remember how she had come by hers this didn't really mean much to her, and she hated them all the same.

Dragging her thoughts back to the task in hand, her fingers went to the deep bruising around the woman's throat. Black and ugly, punctuated with crescent-shaped marks where she had tried to claw her attacker's hands away, it had been the first thing Little Bird had noticed, and she had assumed that the woman had been strangled. But Father had said it was a trick question, so the most obvious answer was almost certainly the wrong one. Her suspicions were confirmed when she pried open the woman's mouth to find that her tongue was not swollen. 'She _was_ strangled, but it didn't kill her.'

'Hmm, go on.'

Encouraged by her father's slightly put-out look, as it suggested he was none too pleased with being outdone in his own profession – and what's more, by a mere seven-year-old – she stuck a finger into her charge's mouth and gently stroked it over the tongue, before withdrawing it. _Blood_. The outside of her body had been cleaned, but there was still some congealed blood in her mouth, which could only mean…

Feeling her heart quicken with excitement, Little Bird turned her attention to the woman's abdomen. No marks were to be seen, but that didn't mean they weren't there. She pushed a hand between the benchtop and the woman's cold flesh, palm up, and after a few minutes of searching her fingers at last found the upraised ridge left by the coroner's stitches, just behind the right lung. 'Stabbed,' she said breathlessly. 'Someone tried to strangle her, but she got away and they stabbed her.' She looked up at her father, beaming in delight. 'I'm right, aren't I?' she added gleefully, bouncing again.

The stricken look Undertaker gave her was all the answer she required. 'I've taught her too well,' he lamented to their silent guest, as Little Bird gave a triumphant crow and began a wild victory lap about the shop. 'Soon I'll be out of a job, and what will become of poor old Undertaker then?'

His reply came in the form of an ecstatic Little Bird, who thudded into his side with force of a small cannonball. 'Don't worry, Papa, I'll let you stay here,' she said, throwing her arms around him. 'Someone'll still need to sweep up all the dust, even when I'm the undertaker.'

'Oh, what a cruel child I've raised!' he wheezed. His little bird giggled, releasing her vice-like grip before her Papa ended up on his own slab. Undertaker groaned theatrically, clutching his ribs. 'I do believe you've turned my lungs to jelly!'

'Sorry, Papa,' she giggled, not sounding sorry at all, and the next moment she was shrieking as Undertaker – recovering very quickly for someone whose lungs had just been jellified – leapt up and started tickling her as if his life depended on it.

'Pa~pa, s-stop!' she squealed, breathless and writhing beneath Undertaker's merciless tickles. 'I c-can't br-eathe!'

'Serves you right, you horrible child,' he teased, giving her side a final, playful prod. She swiped at him, still weak with laughter, and he dodged her easily, pulling her back to her feet in the same fluid motion. 'Come on now, you little beast. We still have work to do, and it's not polite to keep a guest waiting, now, is it~?'

'Ehehe~,' she managed, sagging weakly against Undertaker's side as she let the last of the giggles out of her system. 'No, Papa.'

Despite any evidence to the contrary, Undertaker and his Little Bird did take their job very seriously – once they got around to actually _doing_ it. Make no mistake – they certainly enjoyed what they did a scruple more than most respectable people would find appropriate, but it would take an idiot not to see that Undertaker really did treat his guests with respect, and indeed love, regardless of the condition in which they came to him. After so many years as a shepherd of souls, it was only natural that he found immeasurable beauty in the mortal bodies that had held those souls, something that was evident in every gentle, almost reverent touch.

It was these quieter moments that his Little Bird enjoyed most, working intently beside her Papa as they prepared the dead for burial. First, the guest's soft organs were removed, and their cavities filled with camphorated oil and wine to prevent any nasty smells from interfering with what Undertaker cheerily referred to as their Big Day. If their death had been a particularly intriguing one, they might set aside one or two organs, to be preserved in formaldehyde and examined at their leisure. As a result, by her seventh birthday Little Bird had gained a veritable encyclopaedic knowledge of human pathology, such as any trained physician would be proud of.

Then, the mortician would take up his heavy brass embalming syringe and inject a cocktail of turpentine, oil of lavender and vermillion into the guest's arteries. While the embalming fluid was not difficult to make, Little Bird had flushed with pride when, just over a month ago now, her Papa had entrusted its preparation to her. It had, in fact, been entirely her idea to add the vermilion dye to the concoction in order to restore a more life-like blush to the dead flesh, a stroke of genius that had delighted her father to no end and impressed him more than he would ever care to admit.

Yes, she was growing up to be a very clever little bird indeed.

When she had slipped into that terrifying sleep, Undertaker had feared the worst – that she had been too young, her soul too fragile, to withstand such a forced transition from mortal to immortal. There was, after all, no precedent. Apparently your average reaper was not brave – or, more likely, foolish – enough to rewrite another's fate as drastically as he had done Anna Starling's, and even when she had awoken he had feared the experienced would leave her weakened and sickly for the rest of her immortal life.

The opposite had proven true. His little bird had bounced back with such vivacity that - but for the loss of her glossy black hair - there was not a soul in this world or the next who would suppose she had ever been ill in her life, much less a literal hair's breadth away from oblivion. She grew – exponentially, it seemed to the retired reaper – in both height and intelligence, and Undertaker became aware of something he had never before experienced, in a life that had spanned centuries:

The feeling of time slipping away, like sand between his fingers.

'Fetch our guest's clothes, please, little bird,' Undertaker murmured, setting down the syringe, and she scampered off, returning a moment later with the ivory gown this morning's visitors had left for their daughter's Big Day. Little Bird scowled as she set the garment on the work-bench, and Undertaker chuckled softly, knowing _exactly_ what she was thinking. The man and his wife, who clung to his arm and seemed permanently on the verge of tears, had spent the duration of their visit throwing none too subtle glances at the pint-sized apprentice, intently mixing lavender oil and turpentine in the corner, their gazes alternating between disapproval and pity, until finally Undertaker had fixed them with his death's-head grin, tilting his head ever so slightly, so that the candle-light caught and reflected off his strange yellow eyes, and inquired silkily if something was the matter. The couple had shrunk together and insisted that no, nothing was the matter, in fact everything was perfectly fine and indeed highly commendable, and they had left, very much in a hurry, upon remembering that they were late for a pressing engagement… but not before the woman had burst into tears and thrown her arms about a very startled Little Bird's neck, lamenting that it wasn't right at all for such a poor little thing to be forced to work in such dreadful conditions, and that if she had any say in the matter he would be whisked away to a more suitable place at once. Bristling, as much from the indignation of being mistaken for a boy as from the woman's hysterics, Little Bird had fixed her with a glare that put the Undertaker to shame and any question of her leaving the parlour with such a presumptuous woman _firmly_ to rest.

'Don't send me away,' she blurted suddenly, as Undertaker unfolded the gown. He gave her a surprised look; clearly the unpleasant encounter had been troubling her more than she had let on. 'I don't care if it isn't _proper_,' she went on, almost babbling. 'I like it here, I don't want to leave, please, Papa, don't let anyone take me away…'

Wordlessly, Undertaker enfolded the trembling girl in his arms, a pained look crossing his scarred face. 'Hush~, my dear little bird,' he murmured, gently stroking her soft hair, silver with its single streak of inky black. 'Of course I would never send you away. I'd be lost without my little helper ordering me around, you know.' That earned him a weak giggle. 'And as for anyone taking you…' his eyes blazed. 'Well, they'd have to go through me first, wouldn't they? And there's close to a hundred demons and other na~sty things that can attest to me being a tough old bugger to kill, so there's no need for worry on that account, either.'

'I love you, Papa.'

'And I love you, my little bird.'

Although he may not know what the future held for his little bird, or for himself, he did know this; that he loved her more than anything, and that he would protect her, even if it cost him his very last breath.

It was at that moment that he felt it – the sudden chill of foreboding, washing over the subconscious, that every reaper knew to recognise if he wanted to live a long life in the company of all his limbs. Knowing that he had mere seconds – if that – he scooped up Little Bird, shushing her cry of alarm, and all but threw her into the nearest coffin.

'Stay there and stay _quiet_,' he hissed, closing the lid on his daughter's expression of utter terror – could she feel it too? No time to wonder – in the same moment as the door to the parlour exploded inwards in a storm of splinters and all hell broke loose.

_Literally_.

* * *

Finally, things are starting to get interesting! I know nothing much has really happened so far, but I'll try to make up for that in the next chapter. (Does anyone else feel some prime Undertaker badassery coming on? Because I sure as hell do ;3). Thank you all for sticking with the story thus far, it really does warm the icy cockles of my heart, especially as I've never written fanfiction before and I have no idea what I'm even doing attempting it when there are so many more amazing writers than me out there.

Also, if anyone is confused about the timeline (even I get a bit confused sometimes :/) in this chapter, there is a time-skip of roughly a year and a half between the Memo being issued and the events in Undertaker's shop. Just don't think too hard about it and you hopefully won't fall into any of the gaping plot-holes I know this fic is riddled with already. At some point I'll probably go back through and fix everything up, but for now the show must go on x_x

Fun Fact #3: The Latin phrase at the end of Marsden's Interdepartmental Memo is my head-canon Grim Reaper motto, "Ours Is To Serve". (I used google-translate, so if anyone actually reads Latin and wants to correct me on this, please do!)


	4. Fear The Reaper

**Warnings for violence, gore**

* * *

Undertaker cursed as a powerful hand caught him around the throat and slammed him against the nearest wall with enough force to crack the plaster. His already weak vision blurred as a ricochet of pain sliced across the back of his skull and down his spine, and when it cleared he found himself nearly nose to nose with what had to be the ugliest demon he had ever had the misfortune to see. The creature's lips were drawn back in a contemptuous snarl, revealing gums as black as pitch and an equally unsavoury set of jagged yellow teeth, below a nose that had been broken so many times that it lay squashed to one side of his face. Above _that_ and beneath a jutting forehead topped with a shock of hair the colour of piss, were the eyes – or rather, the _eye_, since the left socket contained nothing more than a mass of livid scar tissue – which stared at the pinned reaper with such unbridled loathing that a lesser being would have been instantly liquefied.

As it was, Undertaker merely returned the burning look with a cool one, squirming with only the slightest hint of annoyance, as though the demon were nothing more than an itch in his otherwise comfortable bed.

'Evenin', Olivier,' he said, as pleasantly as he could with his throat still gripped tightly in the demon's fist. 'To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure~?'

The demon's only reply was to let out a guttural growl and tighten his grip, pushing the reaper even further up the wall. Despite his best efforts, Undertaker felt his composure begin to slip as his boots left the floor, all his weight now being held by Olivier's fist and, consequently, his throat. His eyes rolled, his feet kicked, and his hands clawed desperately at the demon's thick fingers, drawing a ratchetting, deeply unpleasant laugh from the infernal creature. All in all, _not_ how he had planned to spend the evening. And if Olivier was here, then that could only mean-

'Steady on, Olivier,' came a drawling voice the consistency of rancid treacle. 'Carreau wants him alive, remember?'

It took a ridiculous amount of effort but somehow the struggling reaper managed to focus his rolling eyes on the second demon, who was mincing across the room like a King down a street overflowing with lepers and nightsoil.

'Then again,' the languid, brown-haired creature added stickily, 'I suppose it wouldn't hurt to have a little fun with him.' The demon giggled, and Undertaker would have vomited had his throat not still been tightly sealed by the larger demon's hand. 'Well. It certainly wouldn't hurt _us_.'

As the brunette finally drew close enough for Undertaker to make out his – or rather, her – features (not that he needed to, already being far too familiar with this particular demonic duo), Olivier made that awful rasping sound again, and the pair's laughter mingled unpleasantly.

'Well, if it isn't dear Iuvart,' he choked out, black spots beginning to dance behind his eyes. Though he could technically go without breathing it required him being in a meditative state, and his current predicament meant that he was about as likely to relax as Iuvart was to win a pissing contest. 'Still as confused as ever, I see.'

'You're certainly one to talk, reaper,' Iuvart said lazily, his voice uncomfortably at odds with his current form. The demon looked down at Undertaker's guest, and wrinkled his delicate nose. 'Ugh. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You always were on the sentimental side when it comes to mortals… but I didn't expect you to be so obsessed with the _fleshy remains_,' he added disdainfully, lifting the woman's arm and letting it fall back with a muffled _slap_.

'_Don't touch her_!'

Undertaker had intended this to be a threatening growl, but his brain was now seriously starved of blood and it ended up as more of a thin, desperate wheeze, causing Iuvart to look up sharply.

'Oh for gods' sake Olivier,' he snapped, wiping the hand he had used to lift the woman's dead arm on the tattered remains of his nun's habit. 'He's about to pass out, and it won't be any fun if he's unconscious now, _will it_?'

The huge demon continued to stare unblinkingly – or should that be unwinkingly? – at his captive, clearly wanting nothing more than to rip the reaper's head off and be done with it, because that certainly sounded like a lot of fun to _him_, Iuvart and his little games be damned. Nevertheless, Undertaker felt his airways decompress – albeit grudgingly on the demon's part – a fraction of an inch, and managed to suck in a lungful of precious oxygen… before Olivier's eye narrowed maliciously and he was suddenly flung against _another_ wall.

This time he actually felt something _crack_ as his already bruised skull smacked into the rock-hard plaster (despite Olivier having tossed him as nonchalantly as he might a ragdoll), and the pain was so intense that he must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was slumped against the wall, his entire skull and spine a mass of grating, screaming pain and the back of his neck hot and sticky with the blood that was _pouring_ from the back of his head and oh gods, his _skull_, and Olivier was coming towards him again, leering that piss-yellow, murderous leer.

_I must be getting old_, he thought, as he tried to crawl away from the approaching demon and found that he couldn't quite remember how one went about it. _Looks like I retired just in time, ehehe~_

'How pathetic.' Iuvart's drawl seemed miles away. 'To think that you were once a legendary being, the bane of Hell itself.' He tried to focus on the nun-shaped smear, but his eyes refused to obey him. How comfortable it was, here on the floor. 'I'm disappointed, Grimnir.' _Not my name_. That voice was annoying. Where was it coming from? A mosquito at his ear, perhaps. How he wished to close his eyes and sleep…

A hand took hold of the front of his robes, hauling him roughly to his feet and causing his skull such incredible _pain_ that he would surely have screamed, if he had been able to remember how to do so. As it was, he could only watch, with a dim sort of horror, as the impossibly long, black claw swam towards his face, slipping in and out of focus. As it drew nearer to his eye, he heard a low rasp that he only barely registered as speaking to him.

'An eye for an eye seems fitting,' it said, accompanied by a sneer that blew the stink of corruption across his face and made him gag. 'Oh, I'm going to _enjoy_ this…'

The claw scraped against his eyelid, and someone screamed.

xxx

Little Bird had never been more terrified in her life. First, a simply awful feeling had come over her, as though she had been thrown head-first into an ice-cold bath. Then, her Papa had grabbed her and stuffed her into the nearest upright coffin (which wasn't such an unusual thing, but his urgency had frightened her even more than the horrible ice-bath feeling), before closing the lid with the whispered demand that she stay there, and stay quiet.

But what had scared her most of all was the look of terror on her Papa's face, in the split second before the lid swung to and she was left alone in complete and utter darkness. She had never seen him so frightened, not even when she had sneaked out of the shop to chase a stray cat and nearly got herself run over by a carriage. Her Papa was _brave_; his scars said so…

But if that were true – if scars really meant you were brave – then she should be just as brave as he. And as horrible, _horrible_ sounds filtered through the walls of her hiding place, and Little Bird shrank back as far as she could, her eyes squeezed so tightly shut she didn't know if she would ever be able to open them again, she didn't feel very brave at all.

There was another awful _crunch_, and things suddenly got quieter. She couldn't hear her Papa's voice, and she let out small sob before remembering what he had told her. In horror she clamped a hand over her mouth, expecting any moment to hear footsteps approaching her hiding-place…

But none came.

Someone was talking, but it wasn't her Papa. It was then that Little Bird realised that he was in trouble, maybe even hurt, and no one was going to help him.

Unless she did.

Suddenly, her own fear didn't seem to matter so much; it was still there, and still as big and horrible as it had been, but now there was something else, something more important, that had risen up in front of it. _She had to help her Papa_.

So Little Bird found herself pushing open the lid of the coffin _ever so slightly_, and peering out, one hand still clamped firmly over her mouth.

There were two demons in the parlour. The one closest to her appeared to be a woman, but had a man's voice. The other was huge, bigger than anyone she had ever seen – and he had her Papa by the front of his robes, lifting him up… Little Bird almost let out another cry when she saw how limp he was, and how his long, silky hair was tangled and matted with what looked horribly like _blood_. But the demons were facing away from her, and they didn't know she was there, and, as her eyes fell on the workbench and caught the glimmer of metal, she knew she had a chance.

She darted forward, grabbed the metal thing, and crept around the workbench towards the nearest demon.

'An eye for an eye seems fitting,' the huge creature said, pointing a long black knife – no, a claw! – at her Papa's face. 'Oh, I'm going to _enjoy_ this…'

The claw moved, and with all the strength in her small body, Little Bird reached up and drove the embalming syringe deep into the brunette demon's back.

xxx

Iuvart's scream was more one of shock than of any real pain, but it was enough. Olivier's jab went wide as he turned to glance at his stricken companion, grazing the bridge of Undertaker's nose instead of taking out his eye, and giving the reaper – now very much alert - the chance he needed to plant a vicious kick in the demon's gut. Olivier reeled back, winded and snarling – and Undertaker summoned his scythe.

There was a flash of silver, a fountain of red, and Iuvart's scream turned to one of anguish as Olivier's left arm went flying. The thick limb, carved off its shoulder as easily as if it had been made of butter, hit the floor at Iuvart's feet with a grisly _slap_, drawing a satisfied grunt from Undertaker. Eyes ablaze, he raised his scythe to deal a second blow – only to realise that the first had already done its work.

Olivier's eye widened as it focused on the spurting stump. He had intended to laugh, as if it to say "is that all?", but, to his horror and utter disbelief, the familiar rasp was drowned in a sudden gush of blood and bile.

The demon toppled like a felled tree as his body finally acknowledged the blow that had cleaved flesh from flesh, muscle from muscle, and bone from bone, cutting him almost in half from shoulder to hip.

With barely an inch of gristle remaining to hold him together, the pupil of Olivier's single eye constricted to the merest suggestion of a slit as he fell, shuddering, to his knees, and his innards slapped the floor in front of him, pooling out like a nest of writhing, bloody snakes. The hot, coppery tang hit the back of Undertaker's throat, almost making him gag, but he did not look away, even when the single, burning eye rolled back into his head, and the demon collapsed, folding back on himself with a final, crimson spurt, looking for all the world like a grisly interpretation of a burst Christmas-cracker.

'It seems you were right,' Undertaker told the twitching remains, giving them a dispassionate nudge with the toe of his boot. 'That was _very_ enjoyable.' He tried for a grin, but even that small movement sent a sickening jolt of pain slicing across the back of his skull. Undertaker drew in a ragged breath and gripped his scythe, so tightly that his knuckles stood out white.

Iuvart let out a wordless sound, half moan, half animal snarl. 'Oh, you'll pay for that, _reaper_,' he spat, as though the word were the foulest curse known to demon-kind. 'You'll pay dearly…'

Undertaker barely heard him. The rush of wielding his scythe again had been beyond words. He hadn't realised how much he had missed this, until now – the warm, obedient metal against the skin of his palm, the heft that beautifully counter-weighted his own, the flash of the blade at it arced through the air and made his blood _sing_ – feeling the staff meld into the natural curve of his hands like an old friend. He felt whole, he felt alive, and it was _incredible_.

But, like all good things, the joy of this reunion was fleeting. The rush dissipated as quickly as it came, to be replaced with a deep and all-consuming exhaustion. And the pain, _always_ the pain, driving red-hot daggers through his eyes and out the back of his skull with every beat of his heart, until he wanted nothing more than to slip to the floor and never, never wake.

What he heard next, however, sent a jolt through his heart unlike anything he had ever felt before.

'Papa…'

With a Herculean effort, Undertaker gritted his teeth until stars burst behind his eyes, and raised his head.

There was Iuvart, the nun's slender body trembling with the combined rage at his companion's death and the pain of the embalming syringe still protruding out of his lower back… and locked in his vice-like grip, struggling weakly as her lips began to turn blue, was his little bird.

'_Papa_,' the demon mocked, in a sickening sing-song falsetto, as the bottom dropped out of Undertaker's world. '_Help me, Papa, the scary demon's going to _kill_ me_…' Iuvart cackled, his eyes two round windows into Hell itself. 'Papa's not going to save you,' he purred against Little Bird's ear. 'He took away something precious to me, and now _I'm_ going to take away something precious to _him_. Though why he should care so much for a little _brat_ like you, I'll never know…' Iuvart looked up and grinned, revealing a mouthful of black, needle-like teeth. 'Why _did_ you keep this one? A guilty conscious, perhaps?' He hooded his eyes and stroked a claw down Little Bird's cheek, drawing a thin cry from the girl, whose struggles were growing ever weaker. 'It was _you_ who killed her parents,' Iuvart said, in a sultry tone. 'Wasn't it… _Grimnir_.'

Undertaker was beyond words. An inhuman growl ripped past his clenched teeth and he hefted his scythe, only to have Iuvart press his claw against his little bird's throat with a shrill, 'Ah-ta-ta-ta, not so hasty, Grimnir! Drop that scythe or the brat loses her pretty little head!'

It was less the demon's shriek that made the Undertaker pause, and more the sound of his little bird's whimper changing pitch as Iuvart's claw broke the ivory skin of her throat, liberating a thread of bright red blood.

The scythe clattered to the floor.

Iuvart gave a manic laugh. 'Oh, this is simply too precious,' he crowed, licking the claw clean. A shudder ran down the demon's spine at the taste of Little Bird's blood, like fire on his tongue. 'You really have become attached to this one, haven't you? That will make it all the more _delicious_ when I _gut_ her in front of you-ARG_HK_!'

The demon staggered backwards, disbelief stamped across his face as he looked down and saw the haft of _another scythe_ sticking out of his shoulder. _What the fuck?_ He hadn't even seen the reaper _move_… Emitting a small gurgle of surprise, Iuvart released his hold on Little Bird - who tumbled to the floor and crawled away, coughing and gasping and sobbing by turns, with a hand pressed against the wound on her neck – and the reaper was on him.

_Fuck, he's quick!_ That was the demon's first thought, as Undertaker's boot slammed into his chest, pinning him to the ground. His next was lost in a blaze of red agony as the bloody-haired reaper seized the grip of the scythe and wrenched it from his flesh – revealing it to be a much smaller tool, more a sickle than a scythe but just as sharp (as the screaming pain in Iuvart's left shoulder could very well attest to). Somehow, the demon's eyes found Undertaker's, and though his vision swam with tears he knew, he _fucking knew_ that the thrice-cursed reaper was smiling as he raised the scarlet sickle (_no, wrong, the sickle should be silver… my blood, oh gods, it's my blood!)_ and, with a fluid, oddly beautiful motion that seemed to use every muscle in his body, brought it down upon Iuvart's exposed neck.

xxx

As soon as the man-woman-demon dropped her, Little Bird had scrambled away as quick as her jellified legs would take her, ragged, gasping sobs escaping her lips. Her neck _hurt_ where the demon had cut her, and she held her hand against the place, using her other to crawl as far away from him as she could. Behind her she heard the meaty _thunk_ of something hitting flesh, and a scream, but she didn't dare turn around to look, lest _he_ get her.

Again.

_I'm sorry, Papa. I wasn't quick enough_...

She hid herself amongst a haphazard pile of coffins, curled into as small a shape as she could without tearing something, and waited for the screams to stop.

xxx

The curved point of the sickle was buried in the wooden floorboards. The haft rested on the floor on the other side of the demon's neck. And trapped between the two, the whites of his eyes showing as they rolled in absolute, unbridled terror, was Iuvart.

Undertaker removed his boot from the demon's chest and sat back on his haunches, considering the stunned creature as one might a piece of meat on a butcher's hook.

'I wouldn't wriggle too much, if I were you~,' he said pleasantly, when Iuvart, quickly recovering from the initial shock of still being alive and in one piece, began to struggle against his silver prison. 'That sickle is all decked out with one of those fancy Angelic Seals, so unless you'd like to leave here carrying your head in a basket, I suggest you keep still.'

Iuvart froze at once. An Angelic Seal was _not_ something to be trifled with; angels might think themselves gods' gift to mankind, but they could be downright nasty creatures when the mood struck them, and even if this were a bluff, Iuvart was taking no chances. Instead he masked his rapidly mounting panic with a sneer.

'You won't kill her,' he rasped, gesticulating with his still-working arm. 'You _can't_.'

'Oh, don't be so sure,' Undertaker said, his voice suddenly dangerous. His eyes travelled the length of the nun's body, taking in the tattered skirts, the grey skin peeking through gaps in the mouldering fabric, finally coming to rest on her face. He remembered Sister Madeleine; she had been beautiful, while she lived. Now her skin was ashen, the flesh of her face shrunken onto her skull, her parched lips pulled back over a demon's fangs, and her eyes…

The eyes always told, and these were the unmistakable eyes of a demon. Undertaker stared into them until Iuvart began to squirm, the demon biting back a whimper as the sickle's blade nicked the delicate skin of his throat.

'No, you're right,' he said at length, without breaking the stare. 'I can't kill her…'

Iuvart could have wept with relief – until the reaper leaned close, teeth bared in a death's-head grin.

'…_because she's already dead_.'

* * *

Mmmm, gore... and there's plenty more to come, darlings~ Please review! I need to know if I'm doing ok here, or if I need to completely change how I'm writing this. Help me out guys, I don't know what I'm doing!

Fun Fact #4: According to Sebastien Michaelis' (yes, I lost my shit when I saw that name) classification of demons, Iuvart and Olivier are both princes of the Third Hierarchy. Iuvart apparently has a penchant for stealing women's bodies, and at the time of Michaelis' writings he was in possession of one named Sister Madeleine. The demon Carreau, who Iuvart mentions, is a prince of the Second Hierarchy. He has a brother (this is a headcanon so don't quote me on this) named Carnivean, who will be mentioned in the next chapter.


	5. Grimnir

**A/N**: Sorry for the wait, darlings! Not gonna lie; this one was a bitch. But it's also the longest chapter yet, so I guess that kinda sorta makes up for the wait (hopefully)? I also went back and added some stuff to the prologue, it's not really important but you can go back and check it out if you want. Anyways, hope you guys like it. Yeah, all eight of you who've persevered thus far (I see you there! Don't think I don't)... which, to be perfectly honest, is eight more than I ever could have hoped for! Cookies and gore for everyone! ILY ;u;

**Warnings for violence, gore, torture**

* * *

Footsteps approached Little Bird's hiding place. She curled tighter, tears leaking from beneath her lids as she squeezed her eyes shut, trembling in fear. Her Papa was dead, she just knew it. She had made the demon angry and her had killed her Papa, and now he was coming to kill her, too…

One of the coffins was pulled aside and she screamed, but then a soft voice was saying, 'Little Bird?' and she was well and truly crying when she scrambled up and threw her arms around her Papa, burying her face in the warm, familiar smell of him.

'Papa,' was all she could say, blubbering all but incoherently against the dark grey heaven of his overcoat, 'Papa, Papa, Papa…'

'Yes, my little bird,' he soothed, holding her as tight as the pain in his ribs and spine would allow. 'It's me. Are you all right?'

She nodded. The cut to her neck hadn't been deep, and it was already feeling a little better. 'I thought you were dead,' she whispered, as though it would become true if she spoke it too loudly. 'I thought it was my fault. I should have been quicker, but I wasn't brave enough…'

'Balderdash,' her Papa chuckled, in that warm, sweet way of his. 'I've never seen a braver thing in all my life, and I won't hear a word to the contrary.'

It was all Little Bird could do to keep herself from screaming again when he pulled away, holding her at arm's length, and she saw, for the first time, the damage the demon had inflicted on her Papa. His beautiful silver hair was dishevelled, and parts of it were so matted with blood that they seemed almost black. There was blood on his face and neck, too, coating his pale skin in long, sticky rivulets, and on his throat an ugly bruise was blossoming like some terrible, deathly flower. But he was smiling, and his eyes were as bright and kind as ever.

They darkened, though, when they fell upon the wound on Little Bird's neck, and she felt a shiver run through her as he brushed a thumb over the claw-mark and something she had never seen before flashed across her Papa's face, something that, in a way, frightened her more than the expression of terror she had seen him wear earlier.

Anger did not even _begin_ to describe it.

'I need you to do something for me, Little Bird,' he said at last. His smile had vanished like morning mist, and though she knew that _she_ had nothing to fear from him her heart began to thump painfully in her chest.

Her Papa was _furious_. She could feel it coming off him in waves; the sort of heavy, electricity-charged foreboding that causes dogs to howl in the moments before a terrifying storm.

Somehow she managed to nod.

'I need you to cover your ears,' he went on, his hands slipping from her shoulders to her wrists. He guided her hands up to her ears, and held them there. 'And close your eyes.' She obeyed, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. 'And stay here, until I come for you. Do you understand, my little bird?'

She did.

'Good. Everything's going to be fine, little bird. Don't you worry now.' She felt him place a light kiss on her forehead, before her wrists were released and she heard the heavy swish of cloth as her Papa stood. His footsteps retreated, and Little Bird settled back against the coffin behind her, pressing her hands against her ears as tightly as she could…

But not tightly enough, she soon learned, to block out what came next.

xxx

Iuvart considered his options. He was pinned to the floor by a death-scythe, in a funeral parlour, alone with arguably the most dangerous being in existence (who also happened to be severely pissed off); so needless to say, those options were very, very few. When the reaper turned his back to tend to the brat, he had tried to wrench the scythe out of the floorboards, but the Angelic Seal, combined with the sheer, brutal force that had driven the blade into the hardwood, meant that, even with his demonic strength, he was about as likely to get the cursed thing to budge as Olivier was to get up and start singing show-tunes.

_Olivier_… Iuvart felt fresh tears sting his eyes. _Gods_. The giant demon had been a pain in the ass at times, true, but they had been as close as brothers. That tended to happen when two misfit demons stood at the lowest rung of the infernal hierarchy, reviled even by their own fellows. It was always them that drew the shortest straw, always Iuvart and Olivier the higher demons sent on the maddest, filthiest, most suicidal missions, not wanting to risk their own, noble necks, because no matter how ill-refined the two were, no one could deny that they were hellishly good at what they did.

All of that was over now, though. Olivier had been turned into dog-food, and as far as Iuvart could see, the odds of him escaping in any better a condition were, in a word, dismal. He had hoped that the reaper's precious Code would prevent him from doing any serious damage to Sister Madeleine, especially after he'd been so prickly about Iuvart touching the dead girl, but the silver haired bastard had quickly put paid to _that_ little idea. Now, Iuvart wasn't convinced that there was anything stopping the reaper from ripping him slowly limb from limb and then feeding his entrails to the alley-cats.

_Fuck you, Carreau. _Iuvart closed his eyes when he heard the reaper returning, suddenly horribly aware of what a vulnerable position he was trapped in. _You should have at least had the guts to come after the reaper yourself, instead of making us play fetch, you yellow-bellied son of a bitch._

'Now, let's see… what do we have here~?'

Iuvart flinched at the reaper's voice, which was accompanied by the sound of something metallic – no, scratch that, a _lot_ of metallic somethings – being dragged across a wooden surface. His heart began to thump painfully against his ribs. That bloody reaper sounded far too cheery for someone who, not even five minutes ago, had barely been able to stand. Iuvart felt his odds of leaving the parlour intact plummet from dismal to non-existent as what sounded like a small armoury in a sack fell to the floor beside his head. Taking care to avoid the scythe, Iuvart turned his head and slit open his eyes. For a moment he didn't know quite what he was looking at.

'So many lovely things, I couldn't possibly choose just one,' the reaper offered in explanation.

The large leather case had fallen open on impact, revealing an array of metal hooks, scissors, pliers, and saws, as well as great many instruments that Iuvart had never seen, nor could begin to guess at their intended use. All were glinting cruelly in the dim light, and all, he knew, just by looking at them, were sharp enough to cause him more than a little discomfit.

_Surgical tools_. The smirking bastard was going to torture him.

Iuvart's panic began to mount as he watched the reaper's finger's skim over the row of tools. Undertaker hummed a little tune, like a child at a candy store, before selecting an implement that looked alarmingly like a _drill_ and lifting it, an admiring, almost reverent gleam in his eyes.

'Hmm, perhaps not,' he said at length, replacing the tool – to an audible sigh of relief from his captive – and tapping one black-nailed finger against his lips in thought. 'I do believe this requires a more… personal touch. At least to begin with. Don't you agree, my dear Iuvart~?'

Before Iuvart had recovered from the relief of having his brains remain inside his skull, the reaper moved – in that terrifying, faster-than-thought way he did – and the demon found himself being straddled by what he was coming to realise was the most frightening creature he had ever had the misfortune to encounter. With his neck pinned by the sickle, and Undertaker now firmly seated on his torso, Iuvart was now, to all extents and purposes, paralysed.

Undertaker leaned low over the demon, a hand on the floor at either side of Iuvart's head, the ends of his blood-streaked hair trailing across the nun's grey skin, smiling that Cheshire smile.

His eyes, however, were seething and utterly mirthless. Iuvart stared into them, feeling as if he was falling into their fiery green depths, burning alive and yet unable to look away as the reaper leaned in close, his lips almost brushing Iuvart's own.

'I've heard that the removal of one sense often heightens the others,' Undertaker purred, as though he were speaking to a lover and not to a creature he had just threatened with a _fucking bone-drill_. He raised one hand from the floor and trailed a long nail down Iuvart's face, lightly scratching the demon's eyelid. Iuvart supressed a shudder, trying not to think about just how turned on he might be if he weren't _this close_ to losing control of his bowels. The bastard was toying with him, that much was clear. Well, he'd show him...

'What do you say, Iuvart? Shall we conduct a little… _experiment_?'

_Fuck you, reaper_, was what he wanted to say, but right now he didn't trust his voice to come out as anything more threatening than a mouse's squeak – and though he was scared out of his fucking mind, Iuvart sure as hell wasn't going to let _him_ know that. So instead he tensed, and, fixing the reaper with as spiteful a stare as he could muster, launched a mouthful of stinking black spittle into Undertaker's face.

Tension stretched out between the reaper and the demon like a string of toffee. There was no sound but for the sticky _drip, drip_ of Iuvart's foul black spit and the harsh, rapid breaths hissing out from between his clenched teeth as he reflected on what exactly he had just done.

_I just spat in Grminir's face._

_Grimnir's._

_Face._

**_Shit_**_._

It was a strange feeling, a mixture of downright, gut-wrenching dread as the gravity of the situation began to sink in, and a perverse sort of pride in the fact that his last act in this world would be to spit in the face of Death himself. At least now, no one would be able to say that Iuvart hadn't died on his own terms; a sick, deviant, defiant bastard to the end.

And so, with a grimace tugging at his lips that could, in bad light, have passed for a satisfied smirk, he closed his eyes once more, steeling himself for the inevitable end.

But of all the sounds he might have expected – the ripping of flesh, the gurgle of blood, his own ear-splitting scream – the one he heard, lying there awaiting the pain, was the one sound that nothing – _nothing!_ – could have prepared him for… and it sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through his heart. This was worse than the shock of hearing the meaty _thunk_ as the sickle buried itself in to the hilt in his shoulder-joint, worse than the gleam of the huge silver drill in the reaper's hand, worse even than the sight of Olivier split open on the ground, the reaper standing over him with the scythe a bloody, grinning arc in his hand and his eyes burning with the green light of death itself…

Because all those things, while horrifying, were natural. They were to be expected. When you were cut, you felt pain. When faced with torture, you felt fear. When the smell of a loved one's blood hit the back of your throat, you felt rage.

When someone broke into your home, beat you half to death, nearly strangled your daughter and then spat in your face, you sure as _hell_ weren't supposed to laugh about it as if it were the most amusing little joke you'd heard all week.

But that was _exactly_ what Undertaker did.

_And it was fucking terrifying._

Iuvart's eyes shot open as Undertaker began to chuckle, the low, almost gravelly sound causing the hairs on the back of the demon's neck to tingle unpleasantly. The chuckle soon rose in pitch, becoming what could only described as a demented cackle, until the reaper's head was thrown back, mingled tears and blood and Iuvart's spit streaming down his face as his whole body shook with the sheer, seismic force of his laughter.

_The bastard! That was exactly what he wanted!_ Iuvart could have kicked himself. _You should have just laid still, kept quiet, and let him do whatever the fuck he was going to do. But no, you were too fucking proud for that, and now you've played right into his hands… _Not for the last time, Iuvart cursed Carreau for getting him into this.

'Oh, this is simply too much!' the reaper crowed, once he was able to form coherent words. 'Ehehe~! I feared you might not play along with my little game, but it seems I underestimated you.' Undertaker cleared the slime from his eyes with a few quick swipes of his over-large sleeves. 'Ah, this will be so much more fun now. Thank you, Iuvart.'

Iuvart floundered. 'F-for what?' _Shut up, you fool! Shut up, shut up, shut _up_!_

Undertaker's grin filled his vision.

'For giving me a first-rate laugh~,' he said, as he stuck his thumbs into Iuvart's eyes.

xxx

The demon convulsed beneath Undertaker's weight, half in pain and half in a desperate attempt to somehow throw the reaper off him. His legs jerked, and his good arm flailed, now scrabbling at the floor, now clawing madly for the reaper's face. Undertaker merely smiled, closed his eyes, and revelled in his prisoner's screams like they were sweet, sweet birdsong. Blood welled around his thumbs as he pressed them deeper into the demon's orbs, his long nails grating against the inner walls of their sockets. Finally he felt rather than heard the two small _pop_s that he had been waiting for, and Iuvart's screams reached an ear-splitting crescendo before trailing off into a thin, gurgling whimper. With a small noise of satisfaction, Undertaker gave the demon's ruined eyes one last little press, eliciting a sound of utter misery from the now blind creature, before drawing his thumbs out and giving them a cursory wipe on his overcoat.

'Now then,' he said, with an eerie chuckle. The demon flinched violently at the sound, earning himself a rather nasty cut as the sickle sliced into the delicate flesh beneath is chin. Undertaker seized his head and forced it back to the floor. 'Ah-ta-ta-ta, not so hasty, Iuvart,' he sang, waggling a finger in the demon's face. 'Be careful of that scythe, we don't want you losing your pretty little head before it's time, now, do we~?'

The echo of his earlier words was not lost on Iuvart, and he let out a quiet sob while the reaper continued.

'I think our little hypothesis might yet be proven correct… what do you think, Iuvart? Are you feeling…' he leaned in close once again, letting the demon feel his breath against his ear. Iuvart tried to jerk away, only to find that his head was still held firmly in place by that vice-like grip.

'…_sensitive_?'

The demon's whimper was all Undertaker need to hear.

Smirking, he pulled back, absently brushing the back of his hand across a cut on one cheek where Iuvart's flailing claw had caught him. His smirk faded at the sight of fresh blood on his hand.

'Hm. We can't have that,' he murmured to himself. He glanced down to where the offending claw lay, still twitching with the odd spasm of pain, and chuckled darkly. 'Well. It seems as good a place to start as any...'

In one smooth motion, Undertaker slipped a long, ornate scalpel from the surgeon's kit and slammed it through the back of Iuvart's palm, driving the point deep into the hardwood and pinning the hand in place. The explosion of pain was so sudden, so unexpected, that Iuvart could not even scream, and he jerked so violently that he would surely have decapitated himself if it weren't for Undertaker's hand still holding his head against the floor.

'Let's get started then, shall we?' the reaper spoke genially, as if he and Iuvart were merely having a pleasant conversation about the weather. Tears of blood ran down the demon's face as he tried to move his other arm to _get this bloody madman off of him_, but the scythe had turned his shoulder-joint into a mess of butchered tendons and exposed nerves, rendering the limb about as useful to the demon as a link of raw sausages.

'It's awfully rude to keep an honoured guest waiting, and I must set a good example for my little bird, you know.

'Now, once I've taken care of these _pesky_ claws, we're going to have a nice little chat, a cup of tea, perhaps a few biscuits… _if_ you behave yourself. If not… I'm afraid I'm going to have to treat you a li~ttle less gently than I did your rather impolite friend over there. You see…'

He selected a pair of forceps from the kit and raised them to his nose in order to examine them. Their tips were serrated, presumably to grip better. Whatever their intended use had been, he doubted it involved pulling the claws off a demon, but they would be perfect for such in any case. _Hm, yes. These will do nicely_.

'…I take it rather _personally_ when demons impose themselves on my place of work without so much as a how-do-you-do, and I make it my business to find out exactly why they believed themselves to be in a position to do so.' Undertaker gripped the end of the first claw with his forceps, and began, slowly, to pull.

'Surely an intelligent demon like yourself could not possibly have maintained any illusions of walking out of here alive?' he continued, ignoring Iuvart's grunts of pain as the tension at the root of his claw increased well past the point of comfort.

'Especially after treating my precious little bird so _poorly_.' The last word was punctuated with a vicious tug on the forceps, and Iuvart howled as the claw was ripped out of his flesh, root and all. Undertaker cast the grisly thing away with a dismissive flick of his wrist, and clamped the forceps around the next black talon.

'So, _Iuvart_.' _Rip. Flick. Clamp. Pull_…

'Are you going to tell me what I want to know?' _Rip. Flick. Clamp. Pull_…

'Or are you going to make things…' _Rip. Flick. Clamp. Pull_…

'…_Difficult_…' _Rip_. _Flick_.

'…For yourself?'

With no more claws to wrench out, Undertaker set the now bloodied forceps on the floor beside Iuvart's maimed hand, took up a second scalpel, gave it a twirl and began to tap the blade lazily against a nail, beating out the slow, threatening _tick, tick_ of time running out.

xxx

Iuvart was in hell. He had never imagined that something could hurt this much – and if the reaper's words were anything to go by, the torture hadn't even started yet. This was just the appetiser, and Iuvart had already been reduced to a gasping, whimpering wreck. _And he hated it_.

After that first involuntary howl had ripped out of his throat, he had cursed himself and gritted his teeth. Now that he knew what was coming, he vowed that not another sound would pass his lips. As a result, when the reaper gripped his second claw with those cold metal pincers and ripped the nail clean out of its bed, he had bitten his tongue so badly that his mouth had filled with blood and he had almost choked. Blood had bubbled out between his teeth – he could feel it dribble down his chin – but with his jaw so tightly clenched and that fucking reaper still holding his head back against the floor, he had been able to do little more than just lie there and hope he didn't drown.

Mercifully, the reaper seemed to have little interest in drawing out this particular punishment. As soon he felt the last nail pull free of its bed Iuvart spat out as much of the blood as he could and sucked in a lungful of blissfully fresh air, too relieved at being able to breathe again to care that the gasping, retching noises he was making were far from the indifferent composure he had tried so hard to maintain. He tried moving his maimed fingers, and was rewarded with five twin blazes of agony that almost made him bite his tongue again.

_Fuck. I have to watch that_. The reaper wanted information, after all, and Iuvart had the feeling that there was not a being in this world or the next who would be able to save him if he couldn't provide it. However, that wasn't so say that the reaper – who clearly had more than a few screws loose – wouldn't just butcher him anyway, even if he did talk? And if he did, by some miracle, manage to walk out of here alive… Carreau would find out he talked. And if that happened… well, Iuvart might as well just throw himself onto this scythe right now and be done with it.

But while it couldn't be denied that Carreau was a sadistic bastard with a mean streak a mile wide, he was safely tucked away in Hell and was unlikely to be exercising that streak on Iuvart any time soon. The reaper, on the other hand, was very close and very pissed, and very eager to cause the demon at his mercy as much pain as possible, and then some.

And as the _tck, tck_, of something that sounded very much like a knife began to mark the passage of his rapidly diminishing time in this world, Iuvart decided that his next move would have to be based solely on which thought frightened him more, right now; betraying Carreau, or giving The Reaper another reason to use that knife.

It was hardly a choice at all.

'Please,' Iuvart said weakly. 'Please, Grimnir. I'll… I'll talk, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Just-' he took a long, hissing breath through his teeth as pain lanced through his maimed fingers. 'Just no more. Please.'

Iuvart felt the reaper's weight shift slightly, and he gave a start when he felt that warm breath on his ear once again. The reaper giggled obscenely at that, and once again, Iuvart cursed his weakness.

'That's very kind of you, Iuvart,' the reaper breathed. 'But I'm afraid it won't be so easy. You see…' he felt the point of a blade trace a line up his forearm. 'How am I to know that what you tell me…' the point broke the skin just below his elbow, and Iuvart stifled a whimper. 'Is the truth?'

'Why would I lie to you?' Iuvart wailed, as the scalpel dug beneath his skin and began to carve its way down his arm. The cut wasn't deep, so he wasn't in any danger of bleeding to death, but _gods_, did it _hurt_!

'Why not? Have demons become renowned for their shining honesty since I retired?' the reaper snorted. 'I haven't been gone _that_ long, my dear Iuvart.'

The scalpel reached his wrist, twisted, made a short horizontal cut, twisted again and continued on, back up the length of his forearm. _What the fuck is he doing? _Iuvart cursed the reaper for taking his eyes; he had never felt so helpless. It was only when the blade reached the start of the cut that he realised he now had a perfect rectangle carved into the skin of his arm, and with that the pieces locked together with an almost audible _click_. Iuvart's heart began to pound against his rib cage so violently that he felt sick, and when he heard the reaper exchange the scalpel for another tool he began to struggle like he had never struggled before. His efforts were in vain, for the reaper merely gave another of those loathsome giggles and tightened his grip until Iuvart could no more have thrown him off than he could a boulder, and his desperate sobs turned to animal screams when the same cold metal tool that had ripped out his claws slid into the cut below the joint of his arm and took hold of his skin.

'NO, NO, NO, NO!' he screamed. 'GRIMNIR, PLEASE!'

'Oh, how sweetly you sing, little songbird,' the reaper chuckled. 'But is that the only tune you know? Let's find out, shall we?'

The metal pincer tightened, and, slowly, began to pull. Skin tore away from the red, wet flesh below, and Iuvart's whole body convulsed with the agonizing pain of a thousand nerves being exposed to a world made of white-hot daggers, and he screamed and screamed and _screamed, _until his throat bled and red flowers burst behind his ruined eyes. He tried to make his tongue work, tried to speak, tried to say something, _anything_ to make this pain stop, but all he could think about was the terror and the all-consuming agony of this nightmare-become-real.

Slowly, piece by piece, the reaper was going to _skin him alive, _and in that moment Iuvart knew that there was not a single shred of information, not one dark secret that he wouldn't divulge to prevent it. And so, when he next had air enough in his lungs to do so, Iuvart began to sing as sweetly as any songbird.

And oh, what a song it was.

xxx

'Iuvart!'

The demon looked up fearfully. He had been trying to figure out how he was going to get both Olivier's mangled remains and himself back to Hell, with his only good arm flayed from shoulder to clawless fingertips and the slightest touch to the exposed flesh causing him mind-numbing agony. He had told Undertaker everything he knew, and a great deal more that he merely guessed at (there was only so much a Third Hierarchy demon was privy to, after all; even one with as many friends in low places as Iuvart), and, in return for his tongue, the reaper had given him leave to take Olivier and go. Iuvart had thought his tongue a small price to pay for his life, and had gladly accepted. Had the reaper changed his mind after all?

'One more thing,' Undertaker said, walking sedately towards him, 'before you go.'

Iuvart took an involuntary step backwards, but Undertaker was faster. He seized the demon in a headlock and brought the bloody scalpel up to his forehead. A few quick slashes, and it was done.

The reaper released his grip and Iuvart fell to his knees, clutching his streaming forehead. 'W…wuh?' he grunted dully, struggling back to his feet, only to have Undertaker seize the front of his habit and pull him close again.

'So they will know that Grimnir sent you,' he hissed against the demon's ear, before shoving him away. Iuvart stumbled over some part of Olivier (his leg? Arm? Who knows.), but managed, somehow, to keep his feet. A moment of blind groping had him taking hold of his butchered comrade once more, but try as he might, he could not muster the strength to haul the carcass the few inches necessary to pull them both into Hell. Every muscle in his body trembled like jelly.

'Oh, and Iuvart?'

Iuvart let out a sob. Gods, now what did he want?

The reaper's voice was honey, poured over a razor's edge.

'Don't ever come back.'

Terror gave him all the strength he needed. With one last desperate tug, Iuvart slipped through the space between Here and There, and he and Olivier disappeared into Hell; two large pools of drying blood, a severed arm, and a small pile of skin and claws the only signs that they had ever been in Undertaker's parlour at all.

When they were gone, Undertaker let out a deep sigh, and bent to collect his scythe; it was in serious need of a cleaning, but that would have to wait. He stood it in a corner, tucked safely away behind a coffin, and went to retrieve its smaller sister from the floor beside the pile of Iuvart's skin. He set it on the lid of a nearby coffin, making a mental note to clean it later, as well. Then, he turned his attention to Little Bird's hiding place.

She stared at him with wide eyes when he moved the coffins aside once more, and he knew without asking that she had heard everything. The thought caused him more pain than the wound on the back of his skull (which was again making its presence known, now that the excitement had passed), and he hated that he had to leave her again, so soon.

'Oh, my little bird,' he said, gathering her into his arms. She trembled as she pressed herself against him. 'I am so very sorry.'

Little Bird was silent, but as he rocked her gently, and stroked her hair, her trembling began to lessen.

'Listen to me, my little bird,' he said at length. 'There is one last thing I must do. I know how brave you are, and I know you'll believe me when I say that no one is ever going to hurt you again. I'll only be a little while; you won't even notice I'm gone.'

'Promise?'

Undertaker looked down at the small, pale face; those wide, glowing green eyes full of fear, not for herself, but for her Papa. He smiled, took her hand in his, and shook it solemnly.

'I promise.'

xxx

Theodore Marsden was at his desk, a little greyer around the temples than he had been at the time of The Incident, a few more lines here and there, but more or less the same as the last time we saw him. He was staring blankly at a list of figures. It was so late that it would have been more appropriate to call it early and yet, Marsden could still see no visible end to the day's paperwork. _Bugger it. _He set the paper back on the 'In' stack, cast a mournful gaze at the much smaller 'Out' pile, and was just reaching for his coat with every intention of going to bed and never coming out, when it happened.

The door to his office flew open with such force that it left a dent in the wall, and something charcoal and vaguely man-shaped rushed towards Marsden, seized him by the lapels of his jacket, and hauled him halfway across his desk. Before he had time to blink, Marsden found himself nearly nose to nose with the bloodiest, angriest man he had ever had the misfortune to meet; such an unexpected turn of the evening's events that he could do little more than make a vague sort of choking noise, while the bloody apparition stared at him with eyes full of what could only be described as _murder_.

'We need to talk,' the man growled, shoving him backwards. The backs of Marsden's knees hit the edge of the chair, and he sat down heavily, still making that same, bewildered choking sound as his scrambled brains struggled to process just what – or rather, who – the blue blazes he was looking at. Now that he was not half an inch away from the apparition's face, Marsden could see that he was incredibly tall, dressed in long, heavy charcoal overcoat with billowing sleeves. His long hair was a tangled mess of blood and gore, but looked as though it might once have been silver… and suddenly, Marsden knew _exactly_ who was standing in his office.

'S-senior Dullahan!' he rasped, frantically adjusting his spectacles, which had come askew at some point, and quickly stood up to pay the legendary reaper the necessary respect. 'G-good gods! Is it really you?'

The older reaper slammed both hands on the desk, making Marsden jump.

'Of course it's me,' he barked. 'Who exactly were you expecting? The toothfairy? Sit down, I said we need to talk. How do you expect me to concentrate with you bobbing up and down like that?'

Marsden, who had been bowing like his life depended on it, sat down quickly, feeling like a gangling green Academy student all over again. Ignoring the chair in front of the desk, Dullahan perched on the desk itself, those fiery green eyes, still fixed firmly on his subordinate, made even more terrifying by their lack of spectacles. 'My apologies, Senior Dul-'

'Oh, don't call me that,' the reaper interrupted, his voice suddenly weary. He raised a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes briefly, as though Marsden's words pained him. 'I'm retired. It's Undertaker now.'

'Un…undertaker?' _Retired? Oh gods, that meant_-

'Yes, Undertaker,' Undertaker repeated, weariness replaced with impatience. 'Surely that isn't so difficult? Look, I have a hat and everything.' He gestured to the top of his head, which was markedly hatless. Marsden thought it best not to point this out.

'But…' Marsden floundered. 'I… we thought you were _dead_!'

That seemed to amuse him. 'Well, surprise~! Sorry to disappoint you, but as you can see I am very much alive.'

That was debatable. Good gods, the man looked like he'd been put through a mangle! Marsden had never seen so much blood on one person, and as a senior reaper that was certainly saying something.

Undertaker must have noticed him staring, because he chuckled. 'Oh, don't look at me like that. Most of this isn't mine,' he said, with an eerie grin. 'Now, my first question.' With the speed of a striking cobra, Undertaker's hand shot out, took hold of Marsden's tie and pulled him close again. 'Are you really as much of an idiot as you look, Theodore?' he snarled.

Caught completely off guard by this abrupt change in mood, Marsden let out a rather undignified squeak. 'I-I-I don't-'

Undertaker's nose was squashed against his. 'Suspending the Treaty? Ordering a free-for-all on demons in the Mortal Plane? Any of this ringing any bells, Theodore? How could you be so imbecilic? _Do you have any idea what you have done, you cretin_?' he roared, shoving Marsden back against his chair in disgust, before leaping off the desk and beginning to pace back and forth in front of it.

'The imbalance you have caused will take _years_ to fix,' Undertaker went on, 'maybe even centuries, if indeed it _can_ be fixed at all! Did you learn nothing at the Academy? As deplorable as they may be, demons are necessary to maintain the balance of life and death. They are as essential a part of the universe as we are, and here you are, slaughtering them left, right and bloody centre, without provocation!'

'Without provocation?' Marsden broke in, trembling with equal parts terror and indignation. 'Demons are, and have always been, a scourge on the face of the earth, leeches stealing and devouring the souls the gods are meant to cultivate and we to collect! I was merely-'

'You were merely what?'

Marsden froze. Undertaker had fixed him with a stare that could have flayed him where he sat, and slowly, like a tiger closing in on its prey, he prowled towards the stricken reaper. He set his hands on the desk and leaned in.

'You were merely what?' he repeated silkily. 'Please, Theodore. Share your infinite wisdom.'

Marsden very wisely kept his mouth shut.

'Hm. That's what I thought.' Undertaker looked away, his nails drumming on the surface of the desk. 'Perhaps this is as much my fault as it is yours,' he mused, after a long silence. 'Perhaps I placed too great an importance on the job, rather than the reason for it. In any case, what's done is done. So!' he looked sharply back to Marsden, who gave another little involuntary start. 'What are you going to do about this merry mess you've got yourself into, eh?'

'Er… I suppose I'll have to rescind that amendment to the Treaty?'

Undertaker nodded sagely. 'A promising start, to be sure. But what about the demons?'

'Er…'

'The demons,' the ancient reaper repeated slowly, as if he were speaking to a particularly dense rock. 'Carreau is out for blood, and he doesn't much care whose it is. In fact, he thought I was the one behind that farce of an amendment.' Undertaker gave Marsden a shrewd look. 'You wouldn't have any idea why that might be, would you, Theodore?'

'N-not at all!' Marsden quailed, shrinking visibly beneath the reaper's gaze. 'He… he _attacked_ you?' _Oh gods, does that mean all that blood is-_

'No, no,' Undertaker said dismissively. 'He sent two of his lackeys to do that for him. We had a nice little chat, and then I sent them merrily on their way. Carreau, however, will be rather less easy to take care of, should he come knocking on your door. Your reapers killed his little brother, you know.'

What little blood was left in Marsden's face drained completely away at that. 'Carnivean?' he croaked. 'Oh, gods…'

'Indeed,' Undertaker said darkly. 'Quite a tangle you've got yourself into, hm? Well, good luck, Theodore. I've given you fair warning, I'm sure you can handle things from here. You've done _splendidly_ thus far, after all.'

With that he pushed off from Marsden's desk, turned on his heel and had strolled halfway to the door before Marsden's brain had caught up with the recent flood of information. 'Wait!' he called. 'Aren't you going to _help_ me?'

Undertaker turned back, amused. 'And just why should I do that? I am retired, you know,' he added, gesturing again to his hatless head. Again, Marsden thought it best not to comment.

'But, the To-Die List! You never told me how to officially compile it,' Marsden said, a little reproachfully.

'Oh dear, silly me, I almost forgot,' Undertaker giggled, rummaging in one enormous sleeve. 'Here you are~!'

A book thicker than a man's torso landed on Marsden's desk in a cloud of dust.

'That there is the Book of Names,' the ancient reaper explained brightly, while Marsden dissolved into a violent coughing fit. 'Take good care of it, it's the only copy I have. Ta-ta, Theodore!'

'Wait!' Marsden cried again, between coughs. 'Anna Starling's soul, and George Ellerby – what happened to them?'

Undertaker paused with his hand on the doorknob. 'You would be wiser to forget those names,' he said darkly.

'It was the demon named Grimnir, wasn't it?' Marsden pressed. He had waited a year and a half for the truth about The Incident, and he would be damned before he let the one being who might know something slip through his fingers.

The reaper turned to look at him, an incredulous expression on his blood-streaked face. 'Grimnir?' he echoed curiously.

Marsden nodded. 'That's right. The name came up several times during the investigation. Do you know of this demon?'

Undertaker stared at him a moment longer, and then, to Marsden's great indignation, began to laugh. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, bent double, clutching his sides as though he feared they would burst, his whole body shaking, while Marsden stared at him, his mouth opening and closing in an excellent impression of a landed fish.

'Do I _know_ of him?' he cackled, drooling. 'Do _I_ know of _him_?' He slapped his knee and howled.

'Well, do you?' Marsden snapped, bristling at the undignified scene before him (but mostly because it was at his expense) – and just like that, Undertaker's mirth evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

'Of course I do!' Shooting Marsden a filthy look, Undertaker strode to the door and wrenched it open. '_I'm_ Grimnir, you halfwit!'

And with that, the door slammed shut, and Marsden was alone.

He stared at the door a while longer, half expecting it to burst open again, but, mercifully, it remained still. With a heavy sigh, Marsden crossed to his filing cabinet, opened a draw, and removed a single file. The name at the top right-hand corner read _"Starling, Anna", _and beneath that, in smaller type, were the numbers 433-904_._ Without opening it, Marsden gripped the thin folder, and tore it neatly in half, then into fourths, and finally, eights, before tossing the remains into the small fireplace behind his desk.

* * *

**A/N**: And that, my darlings, was the last chapter before we skip ahead to explore the Academy with Little Bird (who won't be so little, of course). So, hop into your time-travelling vehicle of choice, and let's go - _to the future! _

Fun Fact #5: The symbol Undertaker carved into Iuvart's forehead was the Elder Rune 'Os', or 'Ansuz', which looks sort of like a wonky F. It is the rune of messages and of the gods, specifically Odin, the god of war, wisdom and - wait for it - death.


End file.
